


Apogee

by TheVineSpeaketh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Iron Bull is a Good Friend, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-16 05:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: "He hoped things were better in Blackwall’s head than his, but he was highly doubtful. All Dorian could see in the dark of the mountaintops were the shapes of the bloodstains on Blackwall’s armor, and the ichor of something foul matting in Blackwall’s hair, in his beard. The strand of saliva and bile running from his lips as he croaked the reply to Dorian’s question: 'The blood isn’t mine.'"On a routine excursion to the Hinterlands, Trevelyan goes missing. Everything after is, by far, the most challenging trial Dorian has ever endured. (But this is what it is, to love.)Regular updates every Monday.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been chewing away at this for a few months, in some vague attempt to get myself writing again. Well, here it is: some angst with a Very Happy Ending, because I can't sad myself without causing some serious damage. (I'm talking evaporation of all chocolate within a three-mile radius. That bad.)
> 
> If you give this a read, thank you!

“You can’t sleep either?”

Dorian turned toward the voice, watching Blackwall closely as he approached him. From the look of him, Blackwall had been prowling the ramparts all night. It was a wonder, then, he hadn’t run into Dorian before now.

Dorian typically wouldn’t be out here at all. He usually preferred the library when he wanted to go somewhere to think. He’d step in, perhaps plucking a book at random from the shelf nearest the staircase, settle down in the plush chair by the candleabrum, and let his thoughts wander until the long shadows of sunset were swallowed by the gloom of night. He always put himself there just in case he needed to be found--and he often was, by their grand Inquisitor no less, who often came to complain about the assortment of baubles constantly flooding in, sent by dignitaries and nobles and all the like, to congratulate him on his ascendance to the leadership of his own faction.

“It isn’t mine,” he’d grouse, picking at the formal clothes he’d been forced to wear to yet _another_ political soiree. “It’s ours. It’s all of ours.”

And Dorian would laugh in his chair, not able to help it, watching the Inquisitor’s lips quirk just slightly in an unwilling grin. “I don’t think anyone would say the same,” he would say between chuckles, “but we appreciate the sentiment.”

Dorian hissed quietly to himself, covering it with a stretch before leaning back against the stone balustrade and brandishing his most charming smile. “What can I say? I’m in a committed relationship with the nightlife. I just can’t seem to give up my playboy ways, even for the Inquisition’s sake.”

Even with only the dim moonlight to light them, Dorian could see that Blackwall’s unrelenting, stoic gaze did not falter. He appraised Dorian as if he were about to train him, about to trim off the fat of his faults with a sharp word.

It discomfited him, but he held himself well.

“I suppose you don’t approve. Ah, well,” Dorian breathed, turning his back on Blackwall to face the snowy mountain peaks, resting his hands on the stone before him. “The vigor of youth isn’t so easily kept by everybody, now is it?”

Another moment’s quiet ensued, during which Dorian hoped (and maybe prayed a little) that Blackwall had gone. But then the heavy footfalls of his boots grew closer, and his burly body settled in next to Dorian, his elbows resting by Dorian’s hands. Dorian chanced a small look at him, but Blackwall was far away, his eyes wandering the barren landscape, catching on sharp angles and swooping through the dips of the valleys.

Dorian expected himself to care, in some capacity, that Blackwall was pretty solidly imposing himself on Dorian’s silence and personal space in equal measure, but something in him couldn’t find the will to mind. He swept his gaze across the landscape, too, wondering what Blackwall saw in the darkness that he didn’t.

Perhaps--it was foolish and terrible to think, but perhaps--Blackwall saw the Inquisitor. Perhaps he saw Trevelyan, in those last few moments. What Trevelyan’s eyes must have told him; what they must have said to make Blackwall hide, to make him wait for two days in the rain and mud and cold, to make him limp all the way to the Hinterlands proper; to make him stay standing upright in the middle of a throng of Inquisition agents at the Crossroads until he had said everything he could; to make him carry himself to near-death and will himself back to life from a week-long, heavy fever, one the Inquisition feared he could not break.

Dorian hoped to the Maker that wasn’t the case. He hoped things were better in Blackwall’s head than his, but he was highly doubtful. All Dorian could see in the dark of the mountaintops were the shapes of the bloodstains on Blackwall’s armor, and the ichor of something foul matting in Blackwall’s hair, in his beard. The strand of saliva and bile running from his lips as he croaked the reply to Dorian’s question: “The blood isn’t mine.”

“Your thoughts are troubled.” Blackwall’s rough baritone shivered through the crisp night air. “If it’s been caused by me, I apologize. Making a scene was the furthest thing from my intentions, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did.”

Dorian couldn’t keep the scoff from scraping free of his throat. “I hardly think you expect me to rail at you for coming to notify us that the Inquisitor was captured,” (his heart caught in his throat, his fingers drummed rapidly on the balustrade, he almost couldn’t _breathe_ ), “and that you were in dire need of medical assistance.”

Blackwall met his gaze, as he always did, with something in his eyes Dorian couldn’t fathom. “I suppose I don’t,” he said. “But I also know that what happened up there could have been prevented. I take full responsibility for my actions.”

Dorian blinked. He blinked again, _hard_. “What are you insinuating?” Dorian tried to temper his voice, but it broke like a sword hot off the forge, quenched too fast.

“The Inquisitor was relying on me. I did not do my duties in helping to protect him. I take full responsibility for that.” Blackwall’s voice did not falter, not for a moment. He seemed a man resigned to his fate.

It infuriated Dorian. “You were supposed to be on a routine check through the Hinterlands for Warden artifacts, yes?”

Blackwall nodded.

“Then you must indulge me, because I haven’t the faintest clue--why do you think we would blame you for the Inquisitor’s disappearance? You were just as badly attacked. I saw you with my own eyes.”

“I don’t think the Inquisition, or even any of the Inner Circle, would blame me for failing to protect the Inquisitor.”

Dorian huffed, his voice lowering into a hushed rumble. “This is no time for circumlocution, Blackwall. What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you.”

Ice water shot through Dorian’s veins, freezing him in place.

He chuckled. “Whatever do you mean?”

Blackwall was unwavering. “I mean that I can see how badly the Inquisitor’s disappearance has affected you. I know how close you are.”

Dorian snorted, trying for derision and coming out with frustration. “I’m about as close to the Inquisitor as the rest of you are. Look,” he said, interrupting Blackwall’s opening mouth, “I understand you’re trying to be, what, sympathetic? Apologetic? Well, it isn’t necessary. You shouldn’t be sorry to me in particular, and furthermore, you shouldn’t be sorry at all.”

Dorian leveled Blackwall with an even gaze. “We’ll find him. I’m not worried about that. What _does_ worry me, however, is the fact that you’re out of bed, walking about in the cold shortly after recovering from a life-threatening illness. Is this a Warden thing? Some sort of rite of passage, perhaps?”

Blackwall chuckled, his impassive demeanor finally breaking. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “But you’re right. I ought to get some rest. You ought to, as well.”

Dorian nodded, giving a glib sort of salute. “I’ll get around to it. I’ve been mulling over Arwynsson’s _A History of Necromancy_. The sheer amount of inaccuracies is enough to keep me awake at night.”

Blackwall shook his head. “You’d know better than I,” he replied. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dorian bowed slightly. “Warden Blackwall.”

Blackwall nodded before leaving, his heavy footfalls echoing down the stone steps. Dorian listened for a while until he could no longer hear Blackwall in any capacity before allowing his face to fall into the drawn, tired expression he’d worn before. It had been a long week, and he didn’t expect things to get any better.

He resolved to stay awake a while longer, hoping the damned southern cold would wear him out. He wanted not to dream when he fell asleep, for fear of seeing a familiar face contorted in pain and hearing a voice begging him for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM EMBARRASSED AT THE CHICKEN ERROR I MISSED EIGHT MILLION TIMES WHILE READING
> 
> AM I A WRITER????? I’m bluescreening


	2. Chapter 2

The war room was practically buzzing with energy, and not just from Dorian’s sleep-deprived irritation, though that certainly didn’t help matters. He’d had more of those nightmares, except they were interspersed with a few of his older good dreams, and that was more cruelty than he thought his subconscious capable of. Not only was he dreaming of being with a man he couldn’t have, hell, couldn’t even understand; now he was dreaming of having him, and then watching as he was snatched away.

Dorian could feel his skin crackling with energy, but he kept his arms folded, leaning against the windowsill by the only open window.

Cassandra was pacing, relaying what information she had. The day prior, she and a group of templars had scoured the area where the Inquisitor was said to have disappeared, based on a map Blackwall marked. They had just returned this morning.

“The templars were unable to determine precisely what it was that captured the Inquisitor,” she said. “But near the area, a few of our men grew faint. They said they could hear voices.”

That piqued Dorian’s interest. On the other side of the room, seated at a desk, Solas became alert. 

“Perfect,” Vivienne drawled from her own seat--some lavish, cushiony thing that she somehow managed to procure. “Just what we need: voices from the Fade no doubt trying to seduce our templars.”

“Not all within the Fade is malicious,” Solas intoned in his swift, yet eloquent way. 

Dorian was fascinated by the stuffy elf; when he spoke of things he was passionate about, he talked as if the words were being forced from him at a speed he could barely keep up. The first time he had ever been introduced to Solas, in fact, involved this kind of thing, when the Inquisitor had pulled them both into a rousing conversation that had much to do with the Fade. He could remember Solas deadpanning at a joke Dorian told about spirits in the Fade, and the clear, loud notes of Trevelyan’s laughter, the wrinkles by his eyes and the high blush rising to his cheeks…

Dorian yanked himself back into the conversation, willing himself not to tread down that path. That was not a journey he advised himself to take even under regular circumstances, let alone extraneous ones such as these. 

“...it is quite possible that the spirits within the Fade are attempting to communicate, perhaps even show us the events as they transpired,” Solas said, and Dorian could feel Cassandra and Vivienne wincing from where he stood.

He took that as his cue, rising to his feet and swaggering toward the table. “De verbis loqui with the Fade? How charming. And here I thought this was going to be the typical sort of ‘find a smelly cave, kill the men inside, take the Inquisitor home.’ I’m pleased to hear this will at least be somewhat interesting.” Home. Take him home. Fuck.

“Do you insist on being obnoxiously glib,” Cassandra scolded with a grumpy look, “or is that just part of your nature?” It wasn’t a question.

“Truly, Dorian, you aren’t suggesting we actually send one of us into the Fade?” Vivienne said. “The thought alone is ludicrous, darling. We’re more than aware of what exists in the Fade, and any mage is at substantial risk for possession. It doesn’t seem like a risk worth taking.”

“If I may,” Josephine said, stepping forward slightly. “I have reached out to Redcliffe. They have troops scouring all around the Hinterlands for the Inquisitor. If he is still nearby, or if there is any trace of him, it should be found within the week, at least.”

“Or he could be dead,” Cullen said, staring directly down at the table. “If we have no clue what has taken him, we don’t know what timeframe we have. If it’s bandits, we’ll be in luck. But if it’s red templars…” He let himself trail off, the heavy silence weighing down the whole room. Dorian dug his nails into the table, remaining perfectly still otherwise.

“You’re a paragon of optimism,” Varric said, his voice piercing the silence, and all eyes turned to him. “I know our boy. I’ve known him since he was in shackles--well, fresh out of them, at least. He can take care of himself. This whole ‘Fade’ thing is out of my grasp, but I will say that if it gets us one step closer to finding our beloved Inquisitor, I’m on board.”

Solas came to a stand, stepping in next to Varric, and Dorian could never stop himself from smiling at the sight those two made near each other. “I have been into the Fade many times before, and have left unscathed. I wholeheartedly volunteer myself for this endeavor.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, or worse,” Vivienne said, staring Solas down even as she sat. Then, the hard look on her face melted away, and she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “If you’re set on it, I very well can’t stop you. I do not approve, but I shall not stand idly by as it happens.” She rose to a stand, all elegance and poise. “I’ll be coming with you, Solas.”

“As shall I,” Dorian said, folding his arms again. “This is immensely fascinating, if you don’t mind my saying. What am I saying; of course you mind. But I shan’t be deterred.”

“With all due respect,” Cassandra said, “we cannot allow three mages and… Varric to wander off into the Hinterlands alone, seeking out the Fade. It is deeply inadvisable.”

“Then let’s make it a party,” Varric said, glancing around. “A few of Cullen’s boys, a Seeker, a couple of mages, maybe Iron Bull and Blackwall--what could possibly go wrong?”

Cassandra scowled. “As much as I am loath to admit it, you have a point. And this seems to be the strongest lead we have. Leliana and her scouts are trying every day to pick up more information, but nothing has come of it. And all Blackwall can remember is an explosion, and fighting in blinding light. We are without direction.” She looked back down at the map, spreading her hands across the paper. “If this is what we must do to find the Inquisitor, then we should do it.”

“I… suppose you’re right,” Cullen said, standing up straighter. “I’ll send a few of the templars we have with you. They should be enough to keep you all safe.” The “from yourselves” was heavily implied.

“Excellent,” Varric said. “When should we set off? I haven’t gone out for a long while. Feel like I need to stretch my legs.”

“Might I suggest leaving today?” Solas said. “We aren’t entirely sure what this phenomenon is, and I’d like to observe it as soon as possible, assuming it isn’t gone already.”

“Damn,” Cullen said. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll rally the troops I’m sending with you. They should be packed and ready to leave within the hour.” With that, Cullen left, his armor clanking heavily down the hall.

“We should all do the same,” Cassandra said, coming to a full stand. “We meet at the front gate in an hour.”

Dorian grinned. “Looking forward to it.”

All he got in reply was a small groan from Cassandra. He didn’t mind--the templars and seekers were always the most fun to get a reaction out of. 

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” Varric called, and Dorian turned, eliciting a laugh from Varric.

“What can I say?” Dorian said, shrugging with his shoulders. “I know what I am.”

“Well, ‘He Who Calleth Himself Pretty Boy,’ you ought to get packing. I’m sure out of all of us, you miss him most.” Varric’s tone was jovial, but something in his eyes was not.

The nerves in Dorian’s fingers buzzed uncomfortably. “I miss whom? I didn’t notice anyone was gone.”

Varric laughed, but it was a bitter thing. “Don’t bottle everything up all the time, Dorian.”

Dorian’s chest burned as he turned and gave a chuckle, heading off to his room. “I am the pinnacle of unapologetic openness. With my life experience and my voice? It’d be a terrible waste not to be.”

Dorian couldn’t see it, but he heard Varric’s snort.

With the others gone, milling about packing their own things, Dorian headed to his room, ever the vision of grace and sophistication, with maybe a dash of roguishness to really keep people intrigued.

And then the door shut behind him.

He leaned up against the door, breathing deeply and heavily. He let it all fall, the weight on his shoulders too heavy to carry upright anymore, and he slid down, resting on his haunches and crossing his arms over his knees. 

Ever since a week ago, Dorian hadn’t been able to sleep, to eat properly, to keep his damn head on straight for just a moment. He had the image of Blackwall on that day burned into his eyes, the startling absence of someone else there, someone who should have been there.

A few months ago, this wouldn’t even have been a point of concern. Dorian would have laughed at the idea of their Herald being in danger, even when in the jaws of enemy territory. And furthermore, this wouldn’t have been a problem; he’d have been part of the search effort, sure, but it wouldn’t have bothered him too much. He would have been as blithe as he usually is, albeit with a bit of genuine concern laced in there, as it was with proper friendships.

But now, with all that transpired in the matter of just a few weeks, with the seeds that had been planted, and have blossomed, a damned hardy plant despite all odds…

He huffed a breath against his arm, watching his follicles closely as goosebumps rose. Now? He was petrified, and that in itself scared the life out of him. 

He couldn’t stop dreaming of the night before Trevelyan left, those last few moments Trevelyan spent with him in the library, near the fire, debating with him on fucking Arwynsson, of all people.

“His work, if you could call it that,” Dorian groused, “is a waste of whatever motions the eyes have to take to read the damn thing, let alone a waste of ink.” He lifted the hefty book from its place on the fireside table and shook it, as if to demonstrated how “here” the thing was. “This was great parchment--Varric could have used the whole of this tome to make Cassandra faint twice!”

Trevelyan snorted into his wine glass, coughing a little as he set it down and wiping a droplet of wine off the tip of his nose. (That alone had slain Dorian a thousand times over.) Nothing could keep that bright smile off Trevelyan’s face; it pulled at his cheeks, twinkling in his eyes, and Dorian couldn’t help a snicker of his own. 

“Don’t let Cassandra hear you say that,” Trevelyan said, looking around as if he were about to be caught in the pantry with a cookie jar, or perhaps even a kitchen maid. Or a kitchen boy, should the desire strike true with him: a kitchen boy with black hair and dark eyes…

Dorian snapped himself back into the present in time to watch Trevelyan lean in, the smell of his skin and leather washing over Dorian, and say, “I told you that in confidence. Surely you don’t want me to be horrifically murdered by a Seeker.”

Dorian huffed a chuckle. “I think you could take her,” he said, prompting Trevelyan to rear back with a laugh. “And besides,” he continued, “I wouldn’t dare to impugn her reputation as a stalwart figure of justice and action.”

“Though you’d dare to impugn mine as a good secret-keeper.”

Dorian shrugged, glancing toward the window. Maker, it looked dark outside. It must have been the firelight rendering it hard to see out the window. That, or it could have been the glow Trevelyan seemed to always give off, and Dorian didn’t mean the one on his hand…

Dorian heard a shuffle, but his thoughts were locked on one particular spot of darkness outside the library window. 

“Dorian?”

Dorian turned, his eyes widening incrementally. On the floor before him, Trevelyan had settled on his calves, his hands on his knees and his head tilted slightly upwards toward Dorian. The fire was behind him, but Maker, Dorian didn’t need it to see the brilliance of his gaze in its full glory.

Dorian couldn’t help breathing out, “What is it?”

That, in turn, seemed to trigger something in Trevelyan; Dorian could see it in the mild tilt of his head, in his soft gaze turning sharp in milliseconds. Dorian became acutely aware of how far apart his legs were spread, and how if Trevelyan nudged forward just a little more, he would be situated between them. 

Dorian swallowed, but his throat was dry. 

Slowly, Trevelyan raised a hand, telegraphing his every motion. Dorian didn’t dare move, didn’t dare say anything, lest he take his hand away, or stand up and say something to brush this moment aside. He watched Trevelyan’s face, knowing he was being watched in turn.

He almost jumped when Trevelyan’s hand gently pressed against his thigh. It was close, almost far too close, to where Dorian’s most wicked dreams imagined he would be. His skin thrummed with the weight of Trevelyan’s palm, his eyes still locked onto Trevelyan’s. 

For a while, all was silent, and what few creatures that could stand the cold could be heard making their little sounds of living; a mouse chewed at a board somewhere in the wall, and outside, he could hear the small, periodic screeches of what few cicadas made a home in the unseasonably temperate climate in the gardens. 

Dorian and Trevelyan held each other’s gazes for a long while, Dorian practically feeling how obvious his face was being. Far was he from the expressionless visage of a Tevinter magister’s son; his cheeks were red-hot, his body taut like a newly-strung bow, and he was certain that his eyes were pouring out every accolade, every sweet nothing, and every dirty fantasy he had ever had about Trevelyan all at once. 

Trevelyan’s eyes were dark, curious, wolf-like things set into his face, and his jaw flexed with a small tic. Grit his teeth, no doubt, perhaps to not panic and try to find a way out of this mess, Dorian supposed. But his traitorous brain whispered, “What if he does not want to know how to go back, but rather, is resisting the urge to move forward: to not stop?”

Dorian cursed himself a fool for thinking such impossible things, and attempted to banish them from his mind (at least for now). But then, Trevelyan’s hand inched toward Dorian more, and slid somewhat off course, his thumb brushing dangerously close to Dorian’s inner thigh—

“Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan was up at once, circling around Dorian and standing right behind his chair, his palms planted on either side of Dorian’s shoulders as he leaned back. Dorian let himself have a private look of stunned shock, his mouth gaping a little, his head spinning with confusion and want. 

“Leliana. What news?”

“We’ve managed to make a significant find in the Hinterlands,” she replied, and Dorian at once praised her tactful ignorance of their position, which she no doubt saw, seethed at her for her rude and rather untimely interruption, and wanted to beg her to please never use this information against him, because then he would well and truly die, and he’d never know what the fuck Trevelyan was about to do to him. 

“I will gather Blackwall and supplies tomorrow. You can brief us before we set off.”

Dorian could practically hear her curt nod, listening as the soft jingling of her chainmail faded away in the vicinity of the staircase. He didn’t dare move. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. 

The Inquisitor’s clothes shuffled, and a hand slid forth onto Dorian’s shoulder. “Dorian,” he whispered, and that was it. He was all for a good flirt and a good shag—any port in a storm, as he liked to think of it—but something in this was too courtly, too noble and earnest. It made Dorian scared, as much as he hated to admit it. There had been too many nights spent heady with wine after yet another “disgraceful act,” his skin still prickling with shame and hate, for him not to be. 

So he shot to his feet, turning to the Inquisitor and giving him a smile, and hey, it wasn’t entirely disingenuous. “As much fun as this evening has been,” he intoned with a wink, “I fear I must depart. We people like a little thing called ‘sleep.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Trevelyan smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I suppose I should as well.”

“An excellent idea,” Dorian said, chipper, and he headed toward the stairwell out of the library. 

“Dorian.”

The tone in his voice was… off. Dorian turned, and ah; it was written on his face. His brows were slightly low, his eyes fixed on Dorian with a tired look, and his lips were drawn into a somewhat flat line. 

Dorian knew this look by name. It was one he had seen in mirrors after rising from a nest of blankets and bottles, crossing naked to the mirror to see himself, if for no particular reason at all than to put an image to his pain. Dorian knew this look intimately, but Andraste, he couldn't let himself believe what he thought it was. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he was right. 

Trevelyan straightened his stance, his broad shoulders relaxing a little, and Dorian stirred, so enthralled he could burst. 

“When I return,” Trevelyan said, “I’d like to speak with you.”

Dorian bowed. “But of course,” he said, grinning. “You can have me whenever you want me.”

Something flickered in Trevelyan’s eyes, but he seemed to ignore it, walking by Dorian and heading down the stairs. Dorian couldn’t help himself; he watched the Inquisitor go, his eyes snagging on every bit of Trevelyan until he couldn’t see him any longer.

When the door below closed, and the library fell into complete silence, Dorian wandered numbly to the nearest chair, falling into the cushions and breathing out a very heavy sigh. He couldn’t stop his heart from pounding or his thoughts from racing. They carried him away to some sacred fantasy place, where everything he wanted was within reach, from a warm, hot body under his hands to those eyes looking at him like he was the truth the world kept hidden, the meaning of it all.

Dorian scrubbed a hand over his face. His cheeks were still burning, his inner thigh still tingling with the sensation of fingers brushing over his skin, the path Trevelyan’s hand took almost aching with how close, how good it was...

Dorian huffed out a sharp breath, gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white. His frustration was laced on every breath. “Dorian, you lovesick fool—”

No. No, no. Please, no. 

He shot up from his chair, pacing around, a wolf stalking the library, swaying a little with his bottled-up anger at himself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was all for the flirting, the games of chicken he and Trevelyan played, the way they both coyly toed the line between this and something, but this development was… this development was unwelcome. 

Dorian didn’t like to play games when his heart was in it. As things were now, if Trevelyan didn’t feel the same, he could strip Dorian bare of everything, because the people of Tevinter care, deeply, about everything, and Dorian was no exception to this.

Things were a blur from there. He knew he went completely blank, staring at the floor for a long time. He couldn’t precisely remember when he stumbled back to his rooms and fell into his bed; he just remembered waking up and feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all, his dreams far more haunting than they had ever been.

Now, that night was just a memory. The Inquisitor and Blackwall left the following morning, and Dorian, Sera, and Iron Bull had been sent out to meet them in the late afternoon to bring a report from Cullen regarding troop movements through the Frostbacks--apparently very important for the Inquisitor to see, and apparently important enough for Cullen to send three of the Inquisitor’s friends rather than the usual couriers. 

They’d tucked into the small rooms they could procure at the Crossroads and waited for the Inquisitor’s return. And then they’d heard screams from outside, and Iron Bull was out the door in the blink of an eye, and Blackwall was shambling up the road, eyes wide with shock, yelling about a flash of light, about hearing Trevelyan crying out.

“The blood isn’t mine,” he’d said, when Dorian asked where he was hurt.

Dorian’s hands began to tremble. His knees were aching from holding a squat for so long. Pushing his back against the door, he rose to a complete stand, dusting dirt that wasn’t even there from his robes.

Behind him, a gentle rapping sounded on his door. 

“Dorian, darling,” Vivienne’s voice called through the wood, “are you ready to head into the courtyard? I thought it might be nice to walk together.”

Sliding a reflexive smile on his face, he turned and opened the door. “I’m unfortunately fussing over my linens like a mother hen in here. I hardly have a thing packed.”

Vivienne scoffed, her face stoic save for the amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You’re hopeless without me,” she said, striding into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual tension, ho!


	3. Cover Submission!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was given this cute cover someone (in my real life) whipped up for this little fic, and I thought it'd be fun to share!
> 
> See the very bottom for a quick Author's Note regarding the next chapters.
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading and commenting on this fic! People like you help make writing a passion I stick to.

Thank you so much, again, to my irl friend who gave me such a lovely cover!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the holiday season, I have had the craziest last two Mondays of my life (Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve), which caused me to forget to upload or update this story. So I wanted to let you guys know that I'm grateful for your patience, this story is still getting uploaded, and this upcoming Monday, you'll have not one, not two, but _three_ new chapters up for your perusal. :)
> 
> Thanks for being such good sports!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! I hope you enjoy!

The ride out to the Hinterlands was hellish. Getting mounts down the high crags of the Frostbacks was always a nightmarish endeavor, and when combined with the prospect ahead of them, and everyone’s stern silence as they traveled, the trip became the least pleasurable version of itself humanly possible.

Within four days, they were in the Hinterlands. Compared to the frigid air of the Frostbacks, the Hinterlands was a carbon-copy of Tevinter, and Dorian relished in the warmth of the sun, balmy despite the fingers of fall clutching the trees. What little bliss he could find, he clung to. He closed his eyes and let his horse lead for a moment, feeling the gentle heat of the sun on his face, burrowing into his hair.

“We’re nearing the place,” Blackwall said, breaking through Dorian’s tranquility. Sullen, he opened his eyes.

They curled up a hillock, moving further away from the Crossroads toward the south. As they neared the large boulders gathered at the base of one of the mountainsides, Dorian could recall this place; a rift once raised hell here. He remembered, in the midst of keeping spirits off his comrades’ backs, snickering to himself as Trevelyan clumsily scrambled up the largest boulder in pursuit of a spirit which kept whisking away as soon as Trevelyan grew near.

After the fight, Dorian broke into peals of laughter, with Iron Bull rushing toward him to do the same. Trevelyan scowled as he wiped off his sword.

“It’s not funny,” he groused.

“But you didn’t _see_ ,” Dorian replied, breaking into higher strains of giggles when Iron Bull mimicked Trevelyan’s clambering in the air. From afar, picking up arrows, Sera fell to a seat, laughing in her funny way. The smile that broke onto Trevelyan’s face was begrudging, yet wonderful all the same.

Now, approaching the boulders, the sunlight cast across the ground seemed more bleak, the moss clinging to the stone an unwelcome sight, appearing as scabs across the rock. It had been almost two weeks since the event, but Dorian still caught himself seeing bloodstains on the grass or splashed onto the stone from the corner of his eye. Every time he looked at the darkened spot in his vision, the blood wasn’t there.

Dorian’s skin crawled. This was the last place in Thedas that anyone had seen the Inquisitor. Trevelyan. He clenched the reigns in his hands.

“This is it,” Blackwall said.

The business of dismounting kept Dorian’s mind off of the inevitable. He fiddled with his saddlebags, trying not to look at Solas as he wandered over to a specific spot, no doubt drawn to some thin part of the Veil.

“Dorian,” Iron Bull said, approaching Dorian from the side. Dorian kept his eyes glued to the belt buckle he was wrangling into place. “You okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dorian spat, dropping his hands to his sides and turning to Iron Bull. “I’ve never been happier.”

Bull surveyed him carefully. “Do you want to hit me with something?”

“No.” Dorian ran a hand through his hair, all the steam behind his anger blown away. “No, I don’t.”

Bull didn’t hug him, but the look he fixed Dorian with felt like he did. He clapped Dorian on the shoulder, wandering over toward Solas, and Dorian was helpless but to follow.

Solas had settled himself onto a rock, his legs folded, his bare toes curled into the pits of his knees. His staff lay across his lap, his hands resting palm-down on his thighs. He hadn’t closed his eyes yet. “The Veil is thin here,” he said.

Dorian could feel it. A thin part of the Veil always felt like the thickness of the world had been trimmed down to something gossamer sliding across his shoulders. But today, the Veil felt like a sheet of untempered steel, grating and scratching, and Dorian resisted the urge to grit his teeth. Sparing a glance at Vivienne, Dorian could tell she felt much the same.

“Can you tap into it?” Cassandra asked, thankfully blunt. Dorian didn’t know what he would say if he opened his mouth now.

"It isn’t so much a matter of tapping in as it is entering,” Solas said. “I will sleep, and attempt to dream. Should anything happen out here, anything at all, do not wake me.”

She nodded. “We will defend Solas,” Cassandra said, pulling her sword and shield. “Dorian, Vivienne, you keep watch over him closely. Should anything happen, it must be dealt with.”

Solas smiled, the look on his face somewhat venomous. “Nothing will happen.”

And with that, he closed his eyes, his back slumping, and he fell into sleep.

For a while, all was silent. Dorian observed Solas closely, looking for any signs of the Fade touching him, but nothing was apparent. From the quiet, still way he sat, he looked like a statue carved from the very stones he was surrounded by, or a strange, gnarled tree that grew in one of the most unlikely places.

“Dorian,” Vivienne said, her tone hard, and Dorian turned to her. Her staff was raised, her eyes focused on something behind him. Dorian glanced over his shoulder, following her the line of her sight.

In the middle of the air, rippling above them, was a rift. But it wasn’t a rift as Dorian had previously seen them; this one was small, rippling and jerking about in fast, twitching movements, growing bigger with each passing second.

Dorian shot a glance at Solas’s still-prone body. “What did you say about nothing happening?” he shouted.

“Steel yourselves,” Blackwall called.

Vivienne twirled her staff, sending barriers showering over everyone, and Dorian peppered the ground with fire mines, the runes spinning and blinking in place.

In the air, the rift twisted and warped, shooting long plumes of light down onto the ground. Something about this rift was different; most rifts Dorian had seen were already pre-formed, floating in the air like ignis fatuus of a far more sinister variety. But this one was growing, shaping right before their very eyes.

After a few long moments in which the entire world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, the beams of light shattered, and demons of all kinds were formed, some pulsing like angry clouds of toxin, others spreading across the ground like tar, rising from the abyss of their own bodies, and still others ripping themselves from the Fade with claws, their long bodies like thin branches of a haunted, long-dead tree.

Dorian twirled his staff, hurling a fireball at the closest demon, and the collision set the demon aflame. The sludgy thing screeched, sliding away as fast as it could, but Vivienne swept her staff downward, and ice jolted upward from beneath it, freezing it in place. Charging in from the side, Iron Bull bellowed and body-checked the frozen demon so hard it shattered into pieces.

Dorian turned his attention to a far-away spirit which targeted them with small, flaming balls of spirit energy. Dorian jumped to the side as one missile flew toward him, listening as it burst upon the rocks behind him with something akin to a muted scream. Dorian flung basic magics at it, trying to wear it down or scare it off, but it swept to the side with thrice-damned efficiency.

Varric, from slightly off to Dorian’s right, primed Bianca and lined his shot carefully, kneeling low to further balance himself. He fired the shot, and Dorian watched as it flew straight through the spirit’s head. It froze in place, its essence slowly dissolving back into the Fade.

“Nice one, Varric,” Dorian called, flinging fireballs at a terror that was stalking Cassandra. She had her guard up high, meeting each of its blows with her shield, leaving no room for her to attack. A few fireballs and the tinder caught--it burst into flames, its high screech piercing, and Cassandra dove in, using her shield to bash into the terror, knocking it down.

It scrambled backward on its claws, almost knocking into Iron Bull, who was whirling his greataxe into a rage demon, beating it away from Blackwall. Blackwall lunged toward the terror, slashing his sword up its back, and it shrieked again, tearing a hole underneath itself and disappearing back into the Fade.

Dorian set mine after mine around their makeshift arena, trying to deter spirits that attempted to stay far away and fire at them. Vivienne kept demons directly off of Solas, unleashing crackling ice spells and coaxing them far away by fade-stepping. When they grew too close, she summoned a blade of powerful energy, slashing at them with all her might.

Dorian shot off another fireball, blasting away an unsuspecting spirit before he was bowled over. He landed right on the center of his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. As he shimmied to his elbows, trying to stand up, his blurry vision cleared, revealing the terror he had set on fire before hovering above him. Its claws were bared, its body contorted over him in an impossible way. It reared back, making to lunge at his throat.

“Brace yourself, darling!” Vivienne called, and she slammed the blade-end of her staff into the ground. A dark cloud quickly gathered above Dorian, and he covered his head with his arms. The wind rushed in, the temperature dropping to freezing, and snow began to fall. The demon leaned down, its arm reaching forth, but it crept to a complete stop, its body icing over. Vivienne ran toward him, grasping at his arm and yanking him to her, pulling him up to his feet.

“Thank you,” he panted, and he spread his arms, pelting the demon with a volley of fireballs until the ice crackled and dissolved, its body falling dead among the few remaining shards.

“Solas!”

Dorian turned, unsure where the voice was coming from. It hadn’t sounded like Bull, Blackwall, or Varric, but it had certainly been a man’s voice. Dorian looked at Solas--he was still peacefully dreaming, no lines of worry etched in his face.

Vivienne raised a hand, her palm glowing gently for a moment before she rested her arm at her side. “Solas isn’t an abomination,” Vivienne said.

“Solas, you must _go_!”

“That sounded like the boss!” Bull yelled, smashing a shade underneath his axe, its form bubbling away.

Dorian paled. It did. He looked around, in every direction he could possibly see, but he didn’t see Trevelyan anywhere. “Where is he, then?” he yelled.

“If he is not here,” Cassandra said, kicking a demon down to the ground, “then his voice must be coming from within the rift!”

Dorian looked up at the rift, trying to see anything within its swirling form. It was dark and green within, but there was little else he could make out.

“Sparkles, eyes on the fight!” Varric yelled, leaping back and firing a volley of bolts at a terror encroaching upon him.

Dorian whipped toward him, spreading his arms wide and pulling up, raising a blazing wall of fire between the demon and Varric. It squealed, startling back a little.

“They keep coming!” Blackwall yelled. He growled as he parried a swipe from a shade. “If we can’t close the rift somehow, we’re going to die here!”

“Any bright ideas?” Varric said. “Unfortunately, none of us were thrown in the middle of a darkspawn’s evil plans, so we don’t all have shiny palms.”

“Your punishment shall be tenfold!” yelled a voice they did not know, and the rift rippled, the demons around them stopping in place, stunned. Some grasped their heads and screamed; others hung low toward the ground, unmoving.

“So be it,” Trevelyan said--and it was Trevelyan, it had to be; no man’s determination stirred something in Dorian the way his did, the way _this_ did--and within the folds of the rift, Dorian could see him. Oh, Maker, Dorian could _see_ him. His body was encased by demonic hands, all of them pulling him back, one resting its claws dangerously close to his left eye, but his left hand was free, thrust forth, the Anchor shooting a beam of green light. The rift’s eerie wail began to sound as it always did when it was closing.

“It’s Trevelyan!” Cassandra called, driving her sword through one of the paralyzed demons.

“But he’s on the wrong side of the rift!” Dorian yelled. His eyes stayed riveted to the gaps in the rift, unable to look away from the spare glimpses he could get of Trevelyan. “Don’t close the damn rift!”

“We _must_ ,” Vivienne snarled, yanking Dorian back toward her. He hadn’t even noticed he had been walking toward the rift.

Dorian hissed, turning toward Vivienne. Her gaze was molten silver, icy yet burning all the same.

He threw a hand up to beckon at the rift. “You mean to tell me you’re content with the Inquisitor remaining in the hellish Fade, then, do you?”

“If he doesn’t close that rift, the demons don’t stop coming,” Bull said. “And this rift’s way different from the usual. It’s pouring out demons by the fuckload.” He jogged toward them, slowing as he grew close to Dorian. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead against Dorian’s. “I don’t like this creepy ‘leave him in the rift’ shit better than you do, Dorian. But it’s the only chance we have right now. I’m sure Solas will give us answers.”

The wailing grew to a higher pitch, the rift growing unsteady. It flared. From within, screeches of displeasure sounded out, and the number of hands on Trevelyan grew significantly. The claw near his eye dug in, pulling back _hard_. Trevelyan cried out, wounds across his forehead and temple opening, blood pouring from his eye.

“No!” Blackwall cried in anguish, brandishing his sword and shield and barrelling toward the rift. Cassandra sprinted after him, but they were too late. Before Blackwall could even touch the rift with the tip of his sword, the rift collapsed, and the paralyzed demons yet remaining fell, dead.

For a while, everyone was silent. Dorian was numb, his hands shaking as he passed his staff between them. He looked around, but saw nothing, barely registering where he was or who was with him. Someone with kind hands led him to sit by the boulders, and he sunk onto a particularly flat rock. His head floated on his shoulders, and he tried to shake it back onto himself.

Dorian jolted when Blackwall bellowed angrily, stabbing his sword into the ground and tossing his shield to the side.

“Calm down, Blackwall,” Cassandra commanded, though her voice sounded a bit shaken as well.

“I failed him _again_ ,” Blackwall said, whirling to face Cassandra. “I was trusted not once, but _twice_ to deliver him back safely, and I have betrayed that trust. He is in there, in the rifts, surrounded by hordes of demons, suffering for _my_ failures.”

“That is _not_ what is happening,” Cassandra seethed, her shoulders squared. “You know this. Do not let your grief cloud your judgement.”

Blackwall gazed at her, assessing. Then, he sighed, his whole body deflating. Cassandra’s stiff stance eased up as well.

“Come on,” Cassandra said, picking up his sword and handing it to him. “We will regroup, and discuss our course of action from there.”

Next to Dorian, Solas rose to a completely straight seat, his eyes open. Dorian’s heart lurched, at once begging to hear news of Trevelyan and disgruntled at what that news may be.

“The Inquisitor is alive,” Solas said. “What few friendly spirits I could find in this particular part of the Fade whispered to me about a living soul trapped there, unable to escape without bringing with him the hordes of Gluttony.”

“Gluttony?” Bull said. “As in hunger?”

Solas shook his head. “Gluttony appears to be a very powerful hunger demon, which fed on so many spirits and other demons that it exceeded its usual threshold for power. It has gathered an army, it appears, though for what purpose, I have no clue.”

“It would be safe to assume that Gluttony’s purpose here would be to consume everything it can,” Vivienne said.

“That… is not a farfetched assumption,” Solas replied, coming to a stand.

“Did you see him?” Blackwall asked. “The Inquisitor, did you see him?”

“We heard his voice calling out to you,” Cassandra said. “He was telling you to go.”

“I did encounter him in my dreaming form, yes,” Solas said. “He was ensnared with them: unharmed, it seemed, though he did appear a little thin. With the demon being Gluttony, I have no presumptions he has been able to eat anything.”

Dorian’s blood thrummed through his veins, reminding him with every pulse he was living, and each breath scraped through him.

Cassandra’s hand rested upon his shoulder, and he looked up at her, his face drawn.

“Come,” she said to everyone, taking the lead as she always did when Trevelyan was not around. “We should reconvene at Skyhold to discuss our options.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and let me know if you found any errors!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom! Two out of three for today. I'm so grateful for your readership! It means the world to me. :D

The meeting was long, dreary, and full of nothing but conjecture, which was hardly comforting considering their problem was a very real one, but none of their answers seemed to be.

“No one should go into the Fade,” Leliana said.

“The Fade is our problem, Leliana,” Solas replied, his fingers steepled and his gaze fixed on some random point in front of him. “We cannot address this without some form of access to it.”

“It is far too dangerous to risk going into the Fade to pull Trevelyan out,” Vivienne said. “Not to mention the fact that our only means of entering it is currently inside with a demon that _wants_ to open the door.”

“So what you do suggest?” Dorian said, shuffling in his chair. He’d been running just below the boiling point since they returned from the Hinterlands, and he was threatening to lose his composure. The more time they wasted arguing and clucking like hens, the more Trevelyan wasted away in the Fade, injured and starving. Dorian’s stomach roiled just thinking about it. “Do you suggest we leave Trevelyan, our only means of defeating Corypheus and saving Thedas, in the hands of minor demon that’s grown too big for its trews?”

Vivienne shot him a glare. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Dorian scoffed. “Well, it’s far better than shooting down every idea that anyone in the room as had so far and leading us right back to square one.” Dorian shot up, walking around to the back of his chair and placing his hands atop the back. “We’re getting no closer to a solution with your and Leliana’s naysaying.”

“They have a point,” Cassandra said, drawing Dorian’s ire. “But Solas and Dorian do as well. We cannot abandon Trevelyan in the Fade, and to do so, we require access to it. It is risky, but Trevelyan would have done the same had it been one of us.”

Everyone fell silent. Those words weighed heavily on Dorian. “Trevelyan would have done the same.” He would have, too, damn him. He would have been the first to suggest jumping into the Fade, opening the rift and staring down an ascended demon, all just to rescue one of them. Speaking in hard but true terms, they were just the little people in the Inquisitor’s quest. But the Inquisitor himself? He was the key to stopping a world-ending cataclysm, the only hope they had against a darkspawn magister who claimed to be a god.

Dorian couldn’t help the feeling of pride welling up in him. Fuck romance with its lack of fucking reservations. Dorian _loved_ this man, _loved_ the stupid, self-sacrificing parts of him, loved the way he held Dorian’s gaze when they debated, never backing down, loved the way he drank with his friends, loved the way he told stories with Varric, loved the way he sat with Sera on rooftops and ate cookies, loved the way he could be heard cooing at the ravens in the tower, loved the way he barreled into danger, stopping flanking assailants when they leapt for Dorian, loved the way his cheeks had more freckles when he came back from the Western Approach, loved, loved, _loved_. Dorian loved, dearly.

“I’m willing to take any risk to get him back,” Dorian said, his voice more steady and sure than he had heard it in a long while.

“As am I,” Cassandra said, coming to a full stand.

Iron Bull, reclining in one of the corners of the war room, came to a full stand himself, his mighty frame projecting his intent far better than any word ever could.

Cullen, Blackwall, Josephine, Sera (though she made a bit of noise about it)--one by one, their fellow companions stood, until all who remained were Vivienne, Leliana, and Solas, though his head inclined toward Dorian.

Leliana relented in a frustrated sigh. “We know next to nothing of the actual inner workings of the Fade,” she said. “If someone has a plan already in place, I’d love to hear it.”

Varric and Cole burst the doors of the war room wide open, startling Sera, who mimed pulling a bow. “Ugh!” she groaned loudly, her hands dropping. “Frigging arsebiscuit. Don’t scare me like that!”

Varric laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “The kid here has some urgent news.” His brow furrowed. “At least, I _think_ it’s news.”

“Prophet’s Laurel,” Cole breathed, his face contorted in the frantic state it usually found itself in when Cole was hearing something or doing something that nobody else could understand. “We need as many bushels of Prophet’s Laurel as we can carry, and enough Felandaris to hide it under.”

Vivienne scoffed. “What is it talking about?”

“Gluttony wants to eat, always eating,” Cole began, murmuring quickly, running a marathon on every breath, “but too hungry to tell for sure what the food is. He wants to come here to eat, to feast, but what if the feast makes him sick?” His head jerked up, scanning the room, as if trying to get someone else to see where he was going. “Prophet’s Laurel.”

Suddenly, Leliana stood from her seat. “Of course,” she whispered. “That would make sense. If the old tale is true, then Prophet’s Laurel may hurt him.”

“Sorry, what am I missing?” Sera said, glancing around.

“In some older tales from around when Andrasteanism was born, the ashes of Andraste scattered across a field of Prophet’s Laurel,” Iron Bull said. “Prophet’s Laurel is commonly used in healing elixirs, poultices, and other things like that.” He quirked a brow. “It’s also used in a lot of purifying agents. It was said to be one of the only effective ways to ease some of the pain of the Blight, but those reports haven’t been truly confirmed.”

“So you’re saying we hinge our efforts on the word of legends and stories?” Josephine said.

"I’d look further into the truth of the matter with some of my better herbalists, but we haven’t the time,” Leliana said. “Cassandra is right. We cannot abandon the Inquisitor, but we cannot pretend this can be solved in a risk-free way.”

Cullen squared his shoulders, his hand coming to rest over the pommel of his blade. “So what do we do, then?”

“I will have my agents gather as much Prophet’s Laurel as possible, as well as Felandaris to lure Gluttony in,” Leliana replied. “Josie, could you send word out to areas were these herbs grow and ask for donations?”

“Certainly,” Josephine replied. “I know a Comte in Orlais who is very fond of growing rare herbs. He may be of use to us.”

“I’ll have my men make their way to the Hinterlands,” Cullen said. “Regardless of how the plan works out, we need to kill that thing before it has bigger ambitions and more power. If it’s weakened, then luck is with us.”

“I shall go with them,” Solas said, finally rising to a stand. “I can go into the Fade as I sleep and guide the Inquisitor to match our every move.”

“We will all go,” Cassandra said. “Commander, I request to be placed in control of a small group of templars, so we may protect Solas.”

Cullen nodded. “I have just the team in mind.”

Plans formulated around them, growing like morning glories around an abandoned pillar. Dorian made himself a firm presence in these talks, as did all of the Inner Circle. They all tossed ideas around, plans of attack and strategies, until the sun sunk low and burned auburn through the stained glass windows.

“Tomorrow,” Cullen said, sliding an Inquisition operation marker over the Hinterlands. The finality of the gesture burned Dorian.

“Tomorrow,” Cassandra echoed, and with that, they dispersed. Dorian made his way to the door first, barely letting it fully open before slipping into the hallway.

There wasn’t much to do between now and the dawn, but Dorian knew his blood would sit at an uneasy simmer unless he occupied his mind. Even now, simply ascending the stairs back to his usual haunt in the library, he could feel his skin crawling.

Trevelyan was one of the strongest men he knew--and not just in the physical sense. He had weathered brutal attacks and injuries, survived numerous explosions and deadly falls, and always came crawling back to do the right thing, even if he was just a muddled lump of bruises held together by sheer willpower and a _lot_ of elfroot. Dorian knew, in his heart of hearts, Trevelyan could survive this. If that sentiment was supposed to make everything a lot easier to bear, however, it wasn’t working.

Dorian could have scoffed at himself for being so naive. He had a terrible penchant for falling in love the moment he was given any kind of affectionate attention, like a mutt on the streets of Minrathous. What made him think that Trevelyan (kind, sweet, wonderful Trevelyan) was going to be any different? It’s not just that he had an ass sent from the Maker himself, though that was definitely a part of it, but he had the brainpower to keep up with Dorian and the wits to match him as well. Topping it off with a gorgeous face with bright eyes and strawberry blonde hair that Dorian never tired of looking at was just the Maker putting the icing on the proverbial cake. The sexy, chiseled Trevelyan cake.

“Dorian.”

Dorian paused on the stairway, turning sideways to glance down at whoever had followed him. Solas’s wraith-like form was not too close behind him, but seemed to fill the entire stairwell. The keen look in his eye could cut through iron, but luckily, Dorian was Tevinter marble.

“Solas,” he replied.

Solas quirked his head slightly toward the right. “If I might have a word, please.”

Dorian grinned, walking down to meet Solas. “It’s always a pleasure to be summoned to our resident Fade expert’s study for a ‘word’,” Dorian said. “I expect to either be scolded or let in on some ancient secrets.”

Solas smirked. “Perhaps a little of both,” he said, and he led the way to the study.

By virtue of taking the other staircase to the library more frequently, Dorian did not find himself in Solas’s study often, so he took a long moment to marvel at the progress Solas made on his mural of the Inquisitor’s efforts. He spun on his heels slowly, still walking toward Solas, but a bit slower so as to enjoy the view.

“It’s coming along marvelously,” he breathed.

“My thanks,” Solas replied, shuffling some papers around on his desk before standing next to it. “May I speak plainly?”

Dorian quirked a brow, putting a hand to his chin and averting his gaze back toward the walls. Something in Solas’s tone seemed… well, a little off, for lack of a better term. “You have my full attention.”

Solas chuckled. “It appears I do not, but I shall continue regardless. When I was visiting the Inquisitor in the Fade, I saw some disturbing occurrences.” Dorian looked at him without entirely meaning to. “He was still alive, and mostly well, for someone with such lengthy physical exposure to the Fade. His sanity was intact, and his will unbroken.”

Solas’s tone was too cavalier, too informative. “Yes, this is all very reassuring,” Dorian snapped.

Solas paid no mind to him. “He attracted a large assortment of spirits and demons to his presence due to his strong connection to the Veil. There were quite a few desire demons present among this throng.” His voice dropped slightly. “I only mention this to you because these spirits of desire were taking your form.”

Dorian _burned_. His skin flared with heat, his fingers almost snapping, flint ready to shed sparks on tinder and set the world ablaze. His mouth dried, for once a desert for words. He couldn’t fully catalogue how this made him feel; it was all too complex, too much for one single moment.

Dorian spluttered. “I… I have no idea what to say.”

Solas, thankfully, did not look scandalized. Dorian was at once grateful for and uncomfortable with Solas’s studious nature.

“You needn’t say anything,” Solas replied. “I only wished to make you aware of this predicament. This may serve as a somewhat trying thing for Trevelyan after he returns to us. If he displays any mistrust toward you, I would have you know why.”

Dorian felt himself nod. “Of course,” he said, blank. “I appreciate that.”

Solas nodded in return. He circled around his desk, once again looking down at the papers and books he had situated there. “I did not mean to intrude upon your preparations.”

Dorian’s chest swelled with relief. “I’ll get back to it,” he replied, stepping toward the staircase into the library. “Thank you; for the warning, I mean.”

Solas nodded, not looking up, and Dorian took his leave.

Dorian maintained his air of composure long enough to make his way up the stairs and flop down into his regular chair. Then, he stiffened in place, almost not blinking.

_Maker’s balls._

Dorian had the odd run in or two with a desire demon in his attempts to explore the Fade more in his dreams, and he was used to the cavalier discussion of his most intimate wants. But Dorian was witty, and parried every jab meant to cut to the core of him. Force eventually came into play as the demons got more desperate, and all he simply had to do was wake up--not hard, considering he dreamed lucidly. He never got past that first stage, where every moment was like an dance in the Orlesian Game, but he had read and heard many tales where deals were struck, or mages were stripped of their sanity, becoming abominations, or maleficarum dabbled in things they ultimately couldn’t control (as always).

Others couldn’t be made into abominations, necessarily: just occupied, like human sleeves for a demon to slip into. All the demon had to do was break them or make a deal, and the body was theirs to do with as they pleased. Trevelyan would not have been an easy person to break, and he was far more useful now to the demons who held him than he would be as a human sweater. He was not a prime target for the usual wants of demons, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t still feast on his emotions. And desire demons were not picky when it came to what they exacted from someone. The easiest were sex or lust; those were two of the key desires that desire demons could tap into. There was love, also, and it was also a distinct possibility that they were pulling upon those strings as well.

Dorian tapped his fingers. Whatever the case may have been, the demons had taken _his_ form, responding to Trevelyan’s innermost wishes and secrets. Dorian was on his mind in some way, and strongly enough that they could even _feed_ upon it. They presented themselves as Dorian to him, probably leaving very little to the imagination, for their own gains, using Trevelyan’s weaknesses against him.

The thought infuriated him just as much as it intrigued him. He had read an account of a young Templar caught in the middle of maleficarum attempting to take over the Fereldan Mage’s Circle over ten years ago. Demons had imprisoned him and were feeding upon his misery, taunting him, according to records, with the image of one he loved. It nearly broke his will.

Dorian, especially in his youth, had believed himself above the effects of such torture. When he had learned, among other alti in Minrathous, that demons would attempt to steal his skin and rend his sanity, he thought it was ridiculous that anyone would be so foolish as to allow such a thing to happen. And his hubris carried with him throughout the years, even into his forays into the Fade, batting words around with a desire demon, chatting over make-believe tea.

Now, with the idea so real and so close, Dorian’s confidence was shattered. Trevelyan was trapped in a nightmare, and thanks to the creatures that dwelled within it, it would be somewhat of his own making. He would have preferred it was him stuck in the Fade instead of Trevelyan; he had experience. He somewhat knew the games they played--the taunting, the teasing, the minute ways they tried to trick you into admitting your secrets, playing into their hands. He knew all about the subtle gifts they offered to give you, all while hiding the price.

And, more importantly, Dorian was more than familiar with hiding what he felt. He was, ironically, the master at resisting temptation. Sure, he was a wino, a fashionista, and a bit of a glutton, admittedly, when it came to Fereldan cream cakes. But these were silly distractions; these weren’t significant desires, and the difference was quite important to Dorian. He’d learned long ago that letting his true feelings show would result in, at best, living as a social pariah, and at worst, being subjected to forced and unwilling changes to his fundamental being. These demons in his real, solid life were not enough to break him--why should something as trivial as _actual_ demons be any different?

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head down. No. No more dismissive discussions of his supposed “prowess” when it came to demons. For Trevelyan’s sake, if not his own, Dorian had to acknowledge that demons were a true threat. He was a fool to have underestimated the terrible things they could do. Their might in the Fade was not something to be taken lightly, and it was endangering his…

Dorian hesitated to make any assertions. For one, evidence was inconclusive as to _what_ Trevelyan felt, despite what it may have seemed. And, in this moment, Dorian wasn’t terribly invested in what it “may have seemed.” All he wanted was to see Trevelyan back, to make sure he recovered, and to make sure that, no matter what, something like this would not and could not happen again.

The preparations were already being made. Dorian rose to his feet and set about making preparations of his own. He was no use sitting around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, and as always, let me know if you find any errors. I did try to beta this like mad, but there's only so long you can look at your own work before you start missing things.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, as promised, the third chapter for today!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience and kindness. I deeply appreciate it.

Dorian rode into the Hinterlands alongside Iron Bull. Something about his certainty and steadfast nature was comforting, even as he rode on one of the Inquisition’s ridiculous giant nugs. They made decent time across the Frostbacks, since, thankfully, Iron Bull didn’t stop to rest as frequently as a larger party did. Dorian thought, perhaps, that Bull could see some of his thoughts on his drawn face. He’d been getting pale, he noticed, and even some of his favorite foods had been left untouched at dinner. He’d been indulging in wine a lot more frequently as well. _Vishante kaffas_ , he’d thought to himself once as he caught his reflection in the mirror in Josephine’s office, was he really that obvious?

If anyone in the entire Inquisition would be able to tell, Dorian thought, it was Iron Bull. Luckily, he’d long since learned that Bull was a trustworthy confidante, if a bit nosy yet well-meaning in his observations. Usually, when Dorian stepped out of line or something different had happened to him, Bull would butt in with a (what Bull no doubt thought was _hilarious_ ) one-liner or a friendly jab at the “Vint.” Naturally, all of this was different. Bull looked at him like he understood everything within him with just a single glance, and his heart was broken in sympathy. None of this, of course, helped Dorian with his resolution of “pretend everything is totally fine.” If anything, it made the pain ache deeper, somehow even _truer_ , fanning some flames of longing and loss into a true wildfire beyond Dorian’s control.

Dorian was quite used to burning by now, so why did it still hurt so much?

Their arrival at the Hinterlands was managed in three days, and as their mounts found their way up to the place Trevelyan had been lost, Dorian felt the exact same way as he had when he came here almost a week ago. The happy memories were once again buried under a thick layer of worry and doubt. Dorian never liked to think of himself as a pessimist, just a pragmatist, but this whole ordeal was trying his entire outlook. Dorian didn’t like being changed so easily by someone so beyond his grasp. If the Dorian of a few months ago had been told his entire self would be falling apart due to a Free Marcher he found to be the truest, most kind-hearted man he had ever known, he would have laughed at the entire prospect. “That’s untenable,” he would have said.

He slid off his saddle, examining his reflection for a moment in the large button of his saddlebag. He _was_ falling apart. Maker thrice-damn this entire ordeal; damn it for what it was doing to Trevelyan, damn it for what it was doing to Dorian, and damn it for showing Dorian just how much he was well and truly fucked.

Dorian turned around, not bothering with anything other than pulling his staff from his back for now. The once-barren area around the boulders was covered in Felandaris, the spiny grey tendrils climbing high to the sky. The bundles of Felandaris were so thick, even the sparse cover they gave managed to hide the bright shoots of Prophet’s Laurel twined underneath them.

Solas was settling into the place he chose to dream from before, laying his staff next to him and folding his hands in his lap. Dorian felt as though he wanted to say something to him, but he didn’t know what it was. He resigned himself to silence, turning to the nearest Inquisition member and taking half of the load of Prophet’s Laurel from their arms. He laid himself into preparations, careful not to prick his fingers on the Felandaris, and especially careful not to let his thoughts carry him away.

With everyone there and lending help, their task was complete within two hours. Dorian stood, shaking a crick out of his shoulders and looking about. Templars were organized just beyond the bales of herbs, slightly hidden by trees or boulders, receiving instruction from a very determined-looking Cullen. Cassandra was relaying her own instructions to the small set of Templars gathered around her. Bull had gravitated toward Blackwall, chatting with him as they whetted their swords. As if sensing Dorian’s gaze, Bull shot him a glance that welcomed him to join them, but Dorian instead found himself walking over to Varric, who had perched himself on a boulder in a position slightly detached from everyone else.

He shimmied up the hill a little before walking up behind Varric, settling into a comfortable position.

“Sparkles,” Varric said, not breaking his gaze from the very last of the preparations taking shape around them.

“Varric,” Dorian replied, kicking his heels back against the rock. “I have a confession to make. I’m trusting in your confidence. This is… rather serious.”

Varric turned his head to look at him, quirking an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Dorian couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Varric, so he kept scanning his gaze over their makeshift battlefield. “I don’t want to hide my feelings anymore.”

He heard Varric’s sigh. “You haven’t been doing a good job of it lately, anyhow.” Dorian shot him a glare, and Varric shrugged. “Obviously you have good reason to. I’m not holding that against you.”

Dorian deflated, shifting his gaze down to his shoes. “I’ve never been particularly well-versed in accepting this kind of… defeat, I suppose.”

“It isn’t defeat in any way,” Varric replied. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Look, love isn’t about giving up or conceding defeat, or any of that bullshit unhappy people try to tell you to make _you_ unhappy. When you’re in love, you’re supposed to feel, you know, _happy_ about it. It’s normal to have insecurities and feel nervous, but don’t let that stop you. When things go to shit, then you can worry, but when it’s good…” Varric gave a reassuring smile and raised his brows. “Let it be good.”

“Who said anything about love?” Dorian asked, but Varric’s smile didn’t change.

“Oh, Sparkles,” Varric said, clapping his shoulder. “You said you were going to stop hiding.”

“Varric! Dorian!” Iron Bull called, waving them back down the hill, and they rose to their feet, Dorian reeling a little as they made their way down to the makeshift battleground.

Leliana was standing before everyone, accompanied on either side by Cassandra and Cullen. “Solas will enter the Fade in his dream and tell the Inquisitor to open the rift here.” She indicated the place where the rift opened before--though how she got the exact location was a mystery to Dorian, considering she wasn’t there last time. “The Felandaris will draw the demon out into the physical realm, and, assuming it consumes the Felandaris, it will also eat the Prophet’s Laurel. From there, it’s a matter of killing it and the minions it enters with, and the Inquisitor will seal the rift. You all know your stations,” she said, and everyone scattered.

Dorian situated himself within the ring of Felandaris, drawing his staff and giving it a twist, enjoying the reassuring weight of it in his hands. Glancing about, Dorian could see a lot of the inner circle in the center, plus the templars Cassandra asked for.

There were a few moments when the jangling of armor filled the air, the hissing of shifting grass indicating everyone getting into positions. Then, a strange hush fell over everything. Only the gentle wind rolling over the hills and the ambient noise of wildlife around them could be heard.

“Solas, whenever you are ready,” Cullen called.

Dorian watched as Solas nodded, closing his eyes and putting his hands on his knees, his head slowly bowing. He looked to the sky, right where he remembered the rift being. His skin itched the way it always did when he anticipated a fight, his magic no doubt swelling within him, crackling to life. He always felt like he had just woken up when he was this attuned to his mana. He could tell just from the feeling in the air, from the look on Iron Bull’s face, from the stance Blackwall took: this time. This time, they were going to make it. This time, Trevelyan was coming back home.

A small pebble of green popped into existence in the air with a loud crack, slowly lashing out in strands of ether, stretching itself further and further. Dorian took his stance, his staff lighting with a soft _whoosh_ , his glare cutting and feral. Around him, the templars tensed in preparation, the inner circle still as the silent night.

The rift crackled, then expanded, a low hum emanating from it as a beam of light swirled its way through the air, falling to the ground. For a while, all was still once more, and Dorian took a deep breath, steadying himself, letting adrenaline take hold of him.

The earth cracked, a schism forming through the rock and dirt, debris flying up. A sickening green bubbling ruptured from the ground where the light struck. Arms stretched from within the boiling mass, anchoring in the ground and pushing, raising a mass of flesh hooded by dark, greasy leather. Though its body was large and full, its ribs jutted out from beneath pale, ashen skin. It gazed around with a white, frantic eye. It lurched forward, its mouth unhinging as it fell upon the Felandaris, not seeing or not caring about its audience.

No one moved. Dorian hesitated to strike, looking around at the others, who seemed in similar straights. The strange moment of uncertainty was swept away by the first screech of demons; they poured forth from the rift, terrors and shades and spirits of all types, howling and screaming, lunging in attack at the nearest adversary they could find.

Dorian sprung to life. He whirled his staff around his body, slipping his grip lower on the staff and swinging it in front of him in a wide arc. A slew of fireballs shot in front of him, spinning through the air and colliding with a few demons, most of whom were set ablaze. With a loud yell, Dorian raised his arms up high, igniting a fire wall between Solas and a demon lurching for him. Cassandra’s templars fell on it, jumping safely through the fire and slashing at the terror, parrying its claws and forcing it to the ground by tucking their bodies behind their shields and sprinting into it like battering rams.

Dorian looked around, micromanaging the battlefield. He drove the blade of his staff through a shade racing toward him, clubbing it twice in the face with the head. He shuffled backward, widening his stance and opening his mana across his chest, sending out a flurry of fire that rained down over the demons. The battle was slightly scattered across the field, all semblance of order swept away as the fight gathered all of its momentum.

Dorian’s foot dipped unnaturally low in the earth, but before he could look below him, a terror barreled up from a rift opening at his feet, knocking him bodily into the air. He landed among the Felandaris, the thorns ripping at his clothes, piercing and scratching his skin. The terror loomed above him, bellowing loudly into his face. Dorian struggled, reaching out blindly for his staff, his gaze fixed on the demon.

Two blades, bright as the sun’s reflection off clear water, poked out from the creature’s ribcage. Thick spurts of whatever viscera it had fell upon Dorian, hot on his cheeks and arms. It flailed, its arms tearing at the metal to no avail, before it crumpled and sunk low to the ground, its thin limbs shrinking. Cole stepped over it, leaning in low and offering a hand to Dorian, seemingly uncaring about the thorns.

“My sincerest gratitude,” Dorian said loud enough to be heard, and Cole tugged him with a surprising amount of strength. Dorian winced as he surged through the Felandaris again, his skin itching, but he came to a full stand. He glanced around the ground, picking out the slender ironbark of his staff from within a bundle of Felandaris. He plunged his hand in, pulling the staff out just as quickly. He didn’t dare look at the cuts criss-crossing his skin; that would only make them itch more.

“‘I am on my way,’” Cole said in that dreamy way he did when he was pulling thoughts from others’ heads, and Dorian trained his attention to whatever Cole said. “‘All of my energy, every last drop, will carry me, _has_ to carry me through the rift. I’m ready to come back, re-enter the world from the darkness, like being born again, what will the sun look like? Wind across the Hinterlands, cool on my face; river water from the mountains, clear, washing away the grime and the pain. Peace and certainty again. Holding my breath; will he be there?’”

Dorian didn’t move, _couldn’t_ move, as Cole continued, flicking his hat away from his eyes and actually looking at Dorian. His soul was laid bare on his face, his eyes haunted, and Dorian felt himself shiver down to his bones. “He is holding his strength together with you at the center, like gravity. ‘How long has it been? His smile will be an elixir of health, his words will bring me such comfort, even if he isn’t serious. I want to pray to Andraste, I want to taste fresh water. More than it all, I wish he would _hold_ me.’”

Dorian’s heart staggered dangerously in his chest, all his breath rushing out of his lungs at once. “We’d best be ready for him,” he said, all the resolve he had bundling up in his weary limbs, lending him some strength. Cole nodded, joining the fray of battle once more. Dorian took up his stance, launching himself back into the battle.

Dorian needed to get him home. He had to. Now, all of his love was a fire in his nerves, a wretched inferno threatening to burn entire continents, to dry entire seas just to get Trevelyan back. He roared, spreading his arms wide and thrusting upward. One after another, columns of fire stretched up from the ground, whorling around demons, sending them running in panic.

“Hell fucking yeah, Dorian!” he heard Iron Bull yell over the din, and over the heads of all the people scrapping with demons, Dorian saw Iron Bull’s axe rise and fall, no doubt sundering something completely.

Over the clanging of swords and armor and the screams of the dying, a horrific screech pierced the air, and Dorian flung his hair away from his eyes and looked over at Gluttony. The demon was hunching, clutching at its throat, clawing into its necrotic flesh so hard it drew ichor. Its every movement was a wretched spasm. It swayed in place, looking around with wide, fearful, glowing eyes, and it surged back toward the rift faster than Dorian expected.

“Stop him!” someone cried, and three arrows drilled into the back of its head, but it kept fleeing. Blackwall rushed before it, clanking his sword and shield together and bellowing. On either side of him stretched two glowing simulacrum of himself, all of them--including the actual Blackwall--digging their heels into the ground and forming a small shield wall.

Gluttony stopped before him, a throaty roar escaping him, and he swiped at Blackwall, who held firm. Dorian threw all his energy into summoning a fire wall behind Blackwall, just to disencourage Gluttony from further moving. From a perch atop the mass of boulders, Sera kept up her volley of arrows. When her quiver was empty, she reached back further on her belt for the next one, sliding it closer to her hand and resuming her attack.

Under the onslaught of the templars and the inner circle, Gluttony snarled and lashed out, but didn’t seem to be weakening further. Its desperation was still writ large on its face, but its movements never slowed, its fervor undeterred.

“How to we stop this thing?” Varric yelled.

“I have no idea!” Dorian shouted in reply.

The rift crackled. Dorian watched as the rift shifted, stretching and roiling in itself. The glow from its center grew brighter, and Dorian shielded his eyes, maintaining his fire wall and praying whatever was happening wasn’t going to swallow Blackwall.

Then, he heard Blackwall let out a strangled cry, and Dorian forced himself to open his eyes.

The glow was still too bright to make anything out, but he raced toward the rift, throwing a barrier wildly into the light and hoping it found Blackwall. He staggered toward the rift, the wind suddenly picking up into a gale, the roar rendering Dorian without his hearing. This was, without a doubt, the most stupid snap decision he had ever made in his life, and given who he was, that was quite an accomplishment.

He reached his hand out. “Blackwall?” he called, trying to feel around for him, and a hand grasped at his wrist, pulling _hard_ . Instinctively, Dorian pulled back, and whatever latched onto him came with him. He reached to his wrist, feeling the hand attached to it: no claws, no unnatural coolness, no strange shape. Latching onto the hand on his arm, Dorian dug his heels into the ground and _pulled_ , his muscles wailing at him with the strain.

Like a thin rope holding a boulder, the tension suddenly snapped, and Dorian was flung backward with his own effort, dragging whoever was gripping him with him. They staggered out of the immediacy of the light, and Dorian could finally see who it was that had clung to him.

A lithe body, built a little more on the top, sat in somewhat-large clothes, as if losing the entirety of its old shape. The clothes themselves were familiar: a leather coat hid the shimmer of scale mail, and underneath that was a slip of linen. But it was the face that really took Dorian in. A shock of bright, strawberry-blonde hair, tousled from the conflict, rested above one shining blue eye. The other, formerly blue, was lost within a sea of glowing green that flooded his left eye socket. Beneath his missing eye, three long stripes that looked just like the rift carved valleys in his cheek, the skin at the fringes blackening and peeling away.

Dorian’s breath hitched, his body going rigid. Small tremors punctuated his stillness, and his breath parted from him on shaky huffs. All he could do was stare, afraid if he reached forward with his free hand and touched Trevelyan, the illusion would shatter, and Dorian would be alone in his room again, shooting up from yet another nightmare.

Trevelyan’s gaze was desperate, his grip on Dorian’s wrist not weakening. From behind him, Dorian could see Blackwall’s hulking form holding onto an arm Trevelyan had extended backward.

“Dorian,” Trevelyan breathed, barely audible over the din of battle.

Dorian willed himself to speak, but could not. He just kept staring, some kind of skittishness taking place of his usual bravado. “Move, damn you,” he thought to himself, but he was captured.

Trevelyan’s shocked gaze shot up above Dorian’s head, and he freed his hands, running off to the side, away from Dorian.

Dorian took off before he could stop himself, scrambling over the bodies of demons, clutching his staff like a lifeline. “Trevelyan!” he yelled.

Trevelyan either didn’t hear him, or didn’t heed him. He leaned low in his run to pick up something--a spear--and whirled into a throwing stance, arcing the spear back before hurling it forth. It buried deep in the beast’s side, and Gluttony roared, swiping wildly at Trevelyan.

Its large claw swept up behind Dorian, following the same path he was taking to get to Trevelyan, and gaining on him fast. Taking a small leap, Dorian fell to his stomach, half-buried among the corpses, and the talons swept above his head, the harsh wind that followed them ruffling his robes.

He pushed himself up on his feet and started sprinting again, watching as Trevelyan leaped out of the way, rolling himself back onto his feet. The large blow scraped along the ground and thrust bodies into the air. Dorian trained his focus on avoiding the fight, trying to follow Trevelyan.

Trevelyan somehow made it through the inner circle. Dorian caught sight of the tail of his coat fluttering past the last of the Felandaris. Rising to a full stand, Trevelyan looked around, his eyes landing on Sera’s position high on the boulder, and he started pushing his way back there, pilfering a knife off a corpse and swiping at demons as he went. Dorian summoned a long fire wall in front of him, lifting it from within the earth, and he used it as a cleared pathway, making sure not to cut off Inquisition soldiers from their tasks.

Trevelyan at length mounted the boulder, Dorian crawling up the rock not too far behind him.

“You don’t just get to _do_ that,” he heard Sera yell, and he stopped at a distance from Trevelyan and Sera, listening.

Trevelyan’s back was to him. Sera had an arrow nocked in her bow, but her hands didn’t rise above her waist. Her face was smeared with dirt and grit, and from where he stood, Dorian could see tear tracks cutting clean lines through the grime. Trevelyan raised his hand, his thumb swiping roughly across her cheek to clear her tears.

"I promise you,” Trevelyan said, “it will _never_ happen again.”

Sera shook her head wildly, her limp hair flailing about her head. “You can’t promise me shite and you know it,” she said.

Trevelyan didn’t miss a beat. “I can promise you this, then: we’re going to stick this fuckwit full of arrows until he’s dead. More than dead. Then, we’re going to go home and drink.”

Sera watched him warily, her brown eyes scrutinizing his features, her nostrils curled up in an uncertain grimace. Then, she leaned to her right, picking up a spare bow--something in Dorian’s heart jerked at the idea that she brought him a _spare_ \--and tossing it to him. Trevelyan caught it with practiced ease, putting himself next to Sera, yanking an arrow from the quiver on that side of her hip.

“We’re gonna beat the piss out of him,” Sera said, and Trevelyan laughed, taking a kneel.

“Dorian!” he called, and Dorian was at his side before he even registered he was moving. Trevelyan didn’t look at him, lining up his shot, but Dorian was on his left side, and he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the abyssal wounds in across his cheek, in his eye.

"I need you to keep Gluttony from getting back inside that rift,” Trevelyan said, and Dorian quirked a brow even as he whirled his staff back into life.

“Is it just me,” Dorian said, preparing himself to really throw his all into this spell, “or is this the _opposite_ of what we want to do?”

Trevelyan’s little smirk was worth all of this trouble, all of this heartache. It was worth it now that Trevelyan was near him, really there, warm and _alive_.

“Solas!” he yelled, and Dorian looked down, surprised to see Solas wide awake, electrocuting a long chain of demons.

“Inquisitor!” Solas yelled above the noise.

“Tell Cassandra we need to corral Gluttony away from the rift! Push him more toward me!”

Solas made no reply, but he began to run, dancing through the demons and soldiers as if he was untouchable.

“What’s the plan after that?” Dorian said. He thrust his mana into his staff, praying to Andraste it held instead of shattering into pieces under the strain. He doubted it would--this was a commissioned piece Trevelyan made for him, specifically meant to channel incredible amounts of magic without weakening--but with snap decisions, one could never tell how luck would turn out.

"We kill him here,” Trevelyan said, firing off shots.

Dorian snorted. “That’s it, is it? No bravado, no elegance; just gut him like a pig right in the middle of a field? Somehow, I expected more from a Marcher.”

Trevelyan laughed. “You’d be surprised at how effective it is.”

“I don’t doubt its effectiveness; I’m just disappointed in the lack of style.”

Sera groaned, her steady onslaught not slowing. “Flirt later, fight _now_ ,” she said, pegging a demon in the eye from halfway across the field.

Dorian didn’t let the comment touch him; everything inside him was keyed toward his staff, the fire at the top raging with his mana. He could feel it. As his concentration mounted, something within him surged. Fire licked at the walls he threw in place, burning hotter and hotter as he gathered more and more energy. He could practically hear Vivienne scolding him for being reckless already, but he didn’t care.

Runes flickered to life in front of his staff. They spun, growing angrier the longer they lingered, sparks flying off them in errant arcs. When he could feel the heat of it biting through at him, when he felt the pressure well to the breaking point, he took a deep breath.

With a shout, he let his mana loose.

Fire launched forth from the runes, whipping in long tails through the air. They dipped low, slicing through demons on the battlefield, weaving around like venomous snakes. Demons screeched and panicked, clawing at themselves in desperation.

With renewed vigor, Dorian pushed his palm forward, near the bottom of the rift. The fires shot upward into the air once more, hellish spires raining thick almost-lava upon the battlefield. They rose high into the air, higher and higher and _higher_ , until their momentum slowed. Then, gravity tugged at them, and they began to fall.

Like comets with tails of lashing flame, they fell to earth. They arced inward toward the base of the rift, carving through the air dangerously close to Gluttony. Gluttony shrieked, shying away from the strands of flame, watching in horror as they twined together, crashing into the earth and rising almost immediately as a two-headed hydra. Their eyes glowed bright blue in their snake-like heads, their mouths gaping wide with white-hot fangs dripping with scorching venom. They struck at Gluttony so quickly the demon was helpless to defend itself. It shuffled away from the hydra, from the rift, screeching as fangs tore across its flesh, cauterizing the wounds as they made them.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sera yelled. “Those are on our side, right? ‘Cause if they aren’t, I can’t put an arrow in that.”

Dorian chuckled, holding his concentration. “I should sincerely hope so,” he replied.

With the hydra blocking off access to the rift, Gluttony was left in the middle of the battlefield. From the corner of his eye, Dorian could see Cassandra and a large group of templars and soldiers closing in around Gluttony, striking at him. As one group moved in and drew Gluttony’s ire, the others pressed him forward, further away from the Breach, until they in turn drew Gluttony’s attention. Slowly, they lured Gluttony back into the thick of the battle.

As soon as Gluttony was in the desired position, Trevelyan set his bow down, tearing his glove off his left hand with his teeth. He rose to his full height, gauging the battlefield for a few long moments.

Dorian glanced at him, straining with the effort of maintaining the hydra. “Is this the part where you kill him?”

Trevelyan’s face was devoid of humor. He narrowed his eyes, holding his palm up and outward.

Slowly, a clear hum began to emanate across the battlefield. The sky darkened, the rift pulsating irregularly. White clumps of energy liquified and sloshed from the rift, dripping onto the ground.

The hum grew louder and louder, and Trevelyan reached out with his free hand to help hold his arm up. The rift shrank, fizzling and crackling with energy, lashing out in green arcs that were pulled back to the rift’s center.

Trevelyan yanked his hand back, and the rift exploded, bits of energy collapsing onto the ground from midair.

At once, Dorian let the hydra go. It crumpled into the earth, its large form dissolving into a shower of embers. With the mana link snapped, his staff fell out of his hands, and Dorian stumbled backward, unable to stop himself from collapsing onto the ground. He laid back on the stone, his body succumbing to shakes.

Trevelyan held his stance, roaring at the top of his lungs. The Anchor crackled, and a rift began opening, gaping and growing at alarming speeds, above Gluttony.

The demon looked up, but it was too late. With a loud, bassy snap, the rift opened, strips of green energy ripping upward from the ground. As they brushed by Gluttony, they tore away his flesh, and Gluttony bellowed in panic. The rift swirled, a gust of wind whirling up and into the rift, only bringing Gluttony with it. The soldiers nearby ducked beneath their shields, or crouched low to the ground, watching as Gluttony was slowly siphoned away.

When the last of the screaming demon was torn to shreds and sucked into the rift, it slowly faded into nothing, and then, the battle was still.

Soldiers rose to their feet after a few beats of silence. Cullen was at work immediately, barking orders and rallying the troops back into wakefulness. The Inquisitor’s friends, their distinct forms easily distinguished from the crowd, began to rush toward the boulder.

Dorian smiled, looking to Trevelyan, but his joy fell into worry. Trevelyan was reeling, his face drawn in total exhaustion. It came to Dorian then just how tired he looked, how awful a state he truly was in. Now that the job was done--because Trevelyan would _never_ allow himself to be rescued and just leave it at that--his face and posture showed his pain.

Dorian willed himself to stand, rushing toward Trevelyan and grasping his elbow. “Trevelyan--”

In a flurry of movement, Dorian was back on the ground, a knife pressed to his throat. The look of animal fury and blind panic on Trevelyan’s face rendered him mute. Distantly, a voice in Dorian’s head reminded him of what Solas had said: _These spirits of desire were taking your form._

“Inquisitor.”

Solas’s gentle cadence seemed to strike into Trevelyan’s terror, and Trevelyan lowered his knife, his gaze locked on Solas.

“Solas?” Trevelyan said, sounding so lost Dorian’s gut clenched.

“Everything is real, my friend,” Solas said, approaching methodically. Trevelyan watched him, clearly wary, but didn’t move.

Solas crouched next to him, reaching out slowly and grasping Trevelyan by the shoulder. “You aren’t in the Fade anymore. Gluttony is dead. You are safe.”

“This wasn’t a dream?” Trevelyan asked, looking Solas in the eye.

Something deep in Dorian’s mind said that the blank green eye socket, on the only half of his face Dorian could currently see, could somehow still _see_ things, or at least sense them. If that was the case--he’d have to ask Solas--then Trevelyan’s panic and disorientation was way more understandable, hell, even understated.

“No,” Solas said. “This was no dream.”

Solas and Trevelyan were still. The rough edges of the boulder dug into Dorian’s shoulder blade, but he didn’t dare move. Trevelyan was warm on top of him, his pulse thrumming in the hand he used to pin Dorian’s left arm down.

He set the knife down. Solas offered a smile.

Then, Trevelyan fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you find any errors!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this on mobile so I probably missed a few little errors and such. I’m sorry in advance

“What’s the prognosis, doctor,” Dorian joked, grinning at Solas’s grimace and Vivienne’s pursed lips. “Will I live?”

“You won’t if you ever attempt such foolishness again,” Vivienne snapped, her tone sharp as a wasp sting.

“It worked,” Dorian retorted, hissing as Solas sent a spark through his palm, testing his mana.

“At great cost,” Vivienne replied. “You’re no good to us dead.”

“I’d been getting the impression you thought me no good to you at all.”

 Vivienne scoffed, turning and stalking out of Dorian’s office, the door slamming behind her.

 Dorian winced. “I’m sure she cares.”

 Solas rose to a stand, not saying anything. He carried the empty flasks of lyrium potion and the empty bowls of crushed elfroot to the rest of his alchemy equipment.

 Since they’d gotten back, the entire Inquisition had been tense. Not that Dorian was particularly griping about it; he was also tense, wound up and twisted into all sorts of knots in all kinds of places.

Trevelyan had slept a lot the first three days he was back, the healer denying anyone but Solas the ability to see him, citing his “frayed nerves,” which discomfited everyone due to the implications. During the day, the chatter and clanking and constant flurry of Skyhold was enough to drown out everyone’s thoughts and worries about Trevelyan, but at night, with everything quiet and still save the cats and rats and crows, Trevelyan’s cries of fear or pain (or Maker knows what) echoed the hollow stone hallways, reminding everyone that as they lay down exhausted from a hard day’s work, he fought every hour to maintain his sanity and secure his life.

Within the remainder of that first week, though, Trevelyan had stopped screaming. The healer, frazzled and looking somewhat exhausted, had happily chirped to Josephine one morning that Trevelyan had slept all through the night, and was asking for the Council to assemble in his chambers that afternoon. Dorian had hoped to catch them on their way up the stairwell to Trevelyan’s room, acting as if he was just on his way to Harrit’s to talk to Dagna about some enchantments, but he’d abandoned the pretense once he’d seen the whole group of Trevelyan’s friends (sans Dorian, but of course he’d been en route) gathered around the doorway.

All of them had waited for the Council to return in complete silence. It was odd, looking over to Varric to find him wordlessly scribbling on parchment paper, or seeing Iron Bull quietly leaning up against a wall, his usual boisterous nature abandoned in favor of pensive observation.

Dorian was itching for a book to read--anything to distract him from the maddening wait--when the door to the Inquisitor’s tower opened, and the Council stepped out one by one. Immediately, everyone jumped to their feet, swarming the doorway and entrapping the group. Questions rushed out of all of them faster than Leliana, Josephine, or Cullen could comprehend.

One look at their faces told Dorian everything he needed to know. Leliana had a secretive smile gracing her lips, and she was carefree with news about the Inquisitor. Josephine was hastily glancing over notes, smiling as she reassured Cole. Cullen’s face was void of all stress, even as he suffered a thorough grilling from Vivienne.

Trevelyan was improving: not just improving, but _triumphing_.

The joy and pride that swelled in Dorian’s chest (and the ever-present love, always there, always growing) was matched equally by his mounting trepidation. Dorian didn’t know what to do. He barely knew how to conduct himself in this moment, let alone what to do with his feelings.

He bit his thumb, leaning back against the far wall, watching and listening in as the Council spoke about Trevelyan’s condition. He had a hard enough time confronting his feelings as it was. All of that mucking about in Tevinter society, and whatnot, had made Dorian wary. He’d smothered every soft-hearted affection he’d ever had, killing the buds before they’d ever seen first blossom, lest something more horrible happen to him. It was bloody self-preservation, and something someone learned to save their life was hard to unlearn.

Dorian wanted, more than anything, to run to Cullen, Josephine, or Leliana, and ask question after question, inquire if, perhaps, he could go upstairs to see Trevelyan. He wanted to spill his heart out over Trevelyan’s bed, let him know all the lovely things he thought that he could never say. He wanted to hope Trevelyan would pick those pieces up and put him back together again; maybe even love him too.

Fear held his every happy thought in a chokehold. No matter how he tried to shove it away, it came back, a ghost with eyes suspiciously like his father’s.

So he stood back, ignoring the looks Iron Bull was giving him, and eavesdropped until the crowd died down and filtered away. Then, Dorian made his way back to the library, needing the weight of a heavy book in his hands.

A week had flown by since then, and Dorian had still succumbed to cowardice, hiding away not just from Trevelyan, but from everyone. He’d buried himself in Cailmoore, Forster, Greddic, and Harrows, barely noticing the passage of day and night. He’d been doing well at avoiding everyone, much to his surprise, considering (and this was somewhat startling to realize) he was sought after by many people who had become his friends.

Vivienne brought him into the light by force, her clipped tone matching the hard tap of her heels against the old stone floors. “Dorian, my dear,” she said, standing tall and proud. Dorian felt so small for reasons completely unrelated to her, but reasons that she, no doubt, exacerbated on purpose. “May we have a little chat?”

That was how he ended up in Solas’s care, finally getting the frayed strands of his mana twined back together again, and he was grateful even as he loathed them both.

He rubbed his wrist, shaking himself from his reverie. He sent out an experimental spark, delighting in the smooth feeling of magic rushing through him again.

“I insist you refrain from any magic use until you have fully recovered,” Solas said, his voice clear as stream water in the gloom of the firelight. Not much of the sunlight from the upstairs window made its way down here.

“Very well,” Dorian sighed, hopping down from the table he’d been settled on. “If I must.”

Solas had no retort for that. His back was still to Dorian, his hands methodically cleaning and putting away implements he’d used.

“You know, Solas,” Dorian said, unable to help himself, “your hands could be worth a fortune. Have you ever considered--”

“Have you spoken to Trevelyan yet?” Solas asked.

Dorian felt himself pouting. “No,” he murmured, “I have not.”

“You should.” The loud snap of a box of smelling salts closing punctuated Solas’s statement.

As if things were that simple.

“I’ve heard he’s still under the weather,” Dorian lied. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“Your information must be out of date,” Solas replied easily. “Trevelyan has been receiving visits from nearly everyone in Skyhold. He’s still bedridden, but purely so he can rest. His nerves have significantly improved.”

“Oh,” Dorian said. “Well, that’s good.”

Thankfully, Solas said nothing, and Dorian considered sneaking upstairs during the lull in conversation.

“Do you have hesitations due to Trevelyan’s behavior in the Hinterlands?”

Dorian scoffed. “Of course not.”

To be frank, Trevelyan’s behavior hadn’t even crossed his mind since that day beyond the cursory flare of residual pain in his left wrist, and a crick or two in his lower back. And while there remained an awkwardness due to Dorian’s knowledge of the desire demons, that hadn’t been keeping Dorian from seeing him.

Quite the opposite, in fact; Dorian itched under his skin, wanting to hear Trevelyan’s every thought, every desire, straight from his mouth. He wanted to tell him he loved him with the desperation of a dying man.

But there lingered that ever-present cowardice. That _fear_. It was more powerful than any demon, and far harder to be rid of.

“Then what troubles you?”

Dorian scoffed again. With Solas, scoffing was becoming a knee-jerk reaction. “I’m surprised at how invested you are in the goings-on of my life, Solas. Your devotion to being the hermit must be flagging.”

Solas finally stopped working at his alchemy supplies and turned to face Dorian, a strangely open look in his eye. “I merely worry that I have done something to draw a schism between you.”

Dorian blinked. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I believe what I believed to have been good foresight may have been a step too far, and I may have done irreparable damage to your relationship with Trevelyan.” Solas stood, unmoving, one hand resting on the surface of his alchemy table. “My attempt to warn you of what had befallen Trevelyan within the Fade was intended to keep something untoward from happening to either of you. But I did not think things through--I did not realize my words could do just as much harm as good.”

“How heartfelt all this is is rather terrifying,” Dorian said, deflecting, always deflecting, because he could not confront this with _Solas_ of all people.

“I only mean to apologize for my mistake,” Solas replied. “I don’t want either of you to suffer because of _my_ misstep.”

Dorian could see it, clear as day, like how he could sometimes see a carriage collision before it happened--he was going to tell Solas. Whatever he had done in his life to earn the Maker bringing him to confession with _Solas_ , he was deeply sorry for it. Solas’s guilt put him in a logical headlock the likes of which he had never seen, not even from Felix. Either he confess to Solas that yes, in fact, it _is_ Solas’s fault he wasn’t going to see Trevelyan (which it wasn’t), or he tell Solas the real reason he was avoiding the stairwell to the tower. Solas was trying to get him to open up, the bastard, and the worst part is, he probably wasn’t even consciously trying.

The metaphorical carriage wheel that was Dorian’s dignity had already cracked on a stone. Might as well see the mess he was about to make through.

“It isn’t you,” Dorian said, more tired than he had sounded in a long while. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me.”

Solas looked to him, his gaze intent. There still wasn’t any smugness there, but Dorian could never be sure of what was going on in his head.

“I’m… in a rather strange predicament,” Dorian said. “I appear to have… feelings for our Inquisitor.” This was ridiculous.

Solas kept his gaze, his expression still unchanging. To Dorian, Solas was usually a wraith-like figure that was easy to ignore. Now, Dorian was certain he had never met someone as infuriating.

“You’re supposed to have some reply at hand,” Dorian said.

“What am I to say? I don’t see a problem thus far.”

“You wouldn’t, you little…” Dorian broke his gaze away from Solas, covering his eyes with his right hand, his left propping on his hip. He breathed in and out slowly, willing the heat in his cheeks away.

At length, he mustered the strength to look back up at Solas. “In Tevinter, being with other men was a sign of many things: weakness, insanity, and a rebellious soul. These are things an altus should not-- _cannot_ \--be. I’ve suffered more on behalf of this than anything else; so you’ll excuse my reluctance in putting myself out there knowing what could happen should things not go as I hope.”

Solas was quiet, thoughtful, and Dorian hated it. He looked up at the walls, trying to imagine Solas laying layer after layer of pigment, creating something permanent in what felt like dilated time. He worked so hard to make something so beautiful, something perhaps no one but him truly understood. It seemed quite unlike him, though perhaps, as Dorian was learning, Solas was not the strange, scholarly elf he’d pegged him as.

“Your pain is not something to quietly ignore,” Solas said softly, and Dorian looked back to him. “To the contrary, it should be learned from, as you learned to survive in Tevinter while retaining who you truly are. The risks were high, and so your defenses were built to last. I admire that. But,” Solas added, looking at Dorian firmly, “you are not in Tevinter, are you?”

Bugger. Bugger buggering _fuck_.

Dorian was sure all that moved his body was the thrum of his heartbeat and nothing else. He grasped for words, but they fell through his fingers like wisps of fog. Nothing in his usual realm of wit and charisma came to aid him.

“I,” he began, and closed his mouth.

“Go see him,” Solas replied, turning away from him.

Dorian knew a clear dismissal when he saw one--perks of being Tevine--but he had to force himself to move, thinking through the process of using each of his legs, of reaching out and curling each finger in his left hand to open the doorknob. This was crazy. He’d been floating for almost a month now, lost and hapless, uncertain of his feelings and resentful of them when he’d finally figured things out. All of that relentless worry, that time spent hiding away like a rat in a cellar, and Solas boiled it all down in the most comprehensible terms imaginable.

Tevinter was a long way away, and with it, his father’s reach and influence. All the mercenaries he liked to hire when Dorian threatened to run off, all the spies he had shadowing Dorian’s every move, all the bodyguards he’d had drag Dorian from a paramour’s home: none of those things had happened here, and thanks to his father’s severe allergy to doing the right thing, as well as Cullen’s magnificent oversight of guard rotations, they probably never would.

Dorian had been tasting freedom for a while and hadn’t even noticed it. He’d built a wall around it because he was accustomed to having something there, blocking his way, keeping him from what he wanted. Now that it was gone, he felt adrift. What does one do with oneself when the status quo has suddenly changed to the ideal?

Dorian stopped walking, staring at the heavy oak door to the tower.

Maybe it _was_ that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all gonna catch the smut soon, huehuehue
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Edit: Okay oh my gosh Monday was hectic as all get out so long story short I ended up covering many more shifts than I originally thought and worked a full nine hours without a break so I came home exhausted and forgot to post the next chapter
> 
> So as a sort of "sorry guys" (for the second time) I'm giving you the next chapter PLUS a bonus chapter tomorrow! Which is Saturday. Still late, but hopefully the bonus chapter makes up for it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, your readership means the world to me~ I'm thankful for the warm welcome back into fanfic writing.

Dorian had spent such a long time avoiding the tower that he forgot how much the steps echoed. No matter how softly he tread, every single move he made was broadcast upward, racing along the stairwell far past Dorian. He may as well have sent an entire Orlesian orchestra and a few loud, exotic birds before him.

Tevinter manners kicked in, and despite his anxiety, Dorian ascended up the stairs to Trevelyan’s rooms calmly. In front of the door, he adjusted his robes casually, twisting a ring the right way on his finger before leaning in and knocking on the door.

“Feel free to come in,” Trevelyan said, and Dorian’s heart leapt gently in his chest. His voice curled around Dorian’s heart like honey, and it was warm, rich, and full again. Gone was the rough scrape of air from his lungs, the desperate clawing confusion that tainted his every word. He sounded well-rested, stripped of all his pain. Nothing in the world delighted Dorian more than this. 

He pushed the door open, methodically stepping inside and pulling it shut behind him. He ascended the stairs, trying to keep himself from adjusting his mustache. His eyes skimmed the room, blind until he caught a look at Trevelyan, and all the breath rushed from his lungs in a sigh of relief.

Though a few fading bruises mottled the skin of his arms and his left eye was covered by a patch, Trevelyan looked well. His bright hair was scrubbed free of all the oil and dirt Dorian had seen before, his cheeks fuller and remaining eye brighter. He was dressed in comfortable clothes, sitting behind his desk and skimming a text, taking notes on loose pages to his right. 

Trevelyan looked up as soon as Dorian’s footsteps grew nearer, and the way his eyes lit up and his lips drew in a wide smile sent a skitter of heat racing across Dorian’s cheeks. 

“Dorian,” Trevelyan breathed, delight mixed heavily in his tone. “I’m pleased you came to visit.”

Dorian heard a “finally” that wasn’t actually there, and shame briefly gurgled in his stomach. “It’s hard to make time in my very busy schedule,” he chirped. “I’m a well-wanted man.”

Trevelyan’s smile didn’t waver, and he bit his bottom lip for a second, sending Dorian’s brain reeling. “I’m glad you could squeeze me in, then,” Trevelyan replied. “You’re the only one I haven’t seen since I returned. I wanted to be sure everyone was well after that ordeal.”

Dorian scoffed. “So typical of you,” he said around a charmed smile, “going through dangers unknown and literal hell on earth, and your first worry when you come to is, ‘I wonder how my motley crew of brigands, low-lifers, and uptight goody-goodies are doing.’”

Trevelyan snorted. “My health is accounted for. Just because I’m unwell doesn’t mean no one else matters.”

“You underestimate your importance,” Dorian said, and he trotted toward the door to the balcony, gazing out at the mountains. The oncoming sunset dyed the glittering snow-capped peaks a fiery gold, the darkening blue sky a picturesque backdrop to the symphony of color playing out before him.

Hands crept around his waist, and a warm body pressed flush against his. Dorian’s mouth fell slightly open, his eyes fluttering closed, and goosebumps prickled his skin as a nose tip traced the back of his neck, warm breaths washing over his skin.

“I think,” Trevelyan murmured close to his ear, “you severely underestimate  _ your _ importance."

Dorian breathed a heavy sigh, a spark of heat flowing up the length of his spine. “Trevelyan…”

“I’m going to be frank with you now,” Trevelyan said, soft yet still arousing in his sincerity, “because you deserve my candor. I almost lost this opportunity. I can’t wait until I make the same mistake again.”

“It wasn’t your--” 

Trevelyan’s hand slid up his chest to cup over his mouth, his middle finger dipping to press softly to Dorian’s lips. His other hand was wrapped around Dorian’s waist, trapping his arms to his sides. Dorian had never been in this position before. He felt drunk.

“I know,” Trevelyan whispered. “But please. Let me speak.”

Dorian was silent as the pad of a finger traced his bottom lip.

“I know this life is grueling and complicated,” Trevelyan said, “and foremost, I want nothing but things to be a way that is manageable for everyone.” Trevelyan, if at all possible, pressed in closer. “Near-death experiences make you think about the things you want. I’ve had more than my share.”

He chuckled, and Dorian shuddered at the breath ghosting across the sensitive skin of his neck and ear. 

“Some people don’t want to get attached during all this, because if something were to happen, the pain would be more bearable that way.” Trevelyan gave him a squeeze. “But it would be remiss of me not to give you the choice. So I’ll speak my mind.”

Dorian opened his mouth, Trevelyan’s finger slipping off his lip. “It seems as if you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Trevelyan slid his finger back up Dorian’s lip, the fingertip pressing into his mouth and tapping on Dorian’s tongue. 

“I have,” he whispered, his tone in stark contrast to the lewd position of his finger. “Maker help me, but I have.”

His hand fell away from Dorian’s face, and Trevelyan gripped his clothes tightly, the corded muscles in his arms tightening. “I have to say it. I’m so scared, but I have to.”

Dorian pushed himself forward, just slightly, and Trevelyan’s grip loosened. But Dorian didn’t go far; he turned in Trevelyan’s arms, pressing forward and pulling Trevelyan into a hug, his arms circling around Trevelyan’s ribs and his chin resting on Trevelyan’s shoulder.

“Please,” Dorian murmured from the depths of his heart. “Tell me.”

Trevelyan breathed in deeply and let out all his breath in a hard sigh. His arms were shaking, his body wracked with tremors as he held on to Dorian, and Dorian held him, even as he was shaking apart.

“I love you,” Trevelyan said, and  _ yes _ , that was it. “I love you, I love you, with all that I have, and I almost-- I almost--”

Trevelyan gasped in a shaking breath, and Dorian felt hot tears soaking through his shirt. Trevelyan’s head was bowed, his face disappearing in the crook of Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian rubbed his back, pressing kisses to his neck, to his hair, to his cheek. 

“Oh, amatus,” Dorian murmured.

“I almost hurt you,” Trevelyan said through tears. “Andraste, I would have-- I could have--”

“You didn’t,” Dorian replied firmly, pulling back and tilting Trevelyan’s head up with a hand on his chin. Already, Trevelyan’s eye was swollen and puffy, his cheeks ruddy and eyelashes sticking together. 

Trevelyan sucked in a shuddering breath. “How can you look at me after what I did to you?” 

Dorian felt the weight of his trepidation snap and crumble away, his heart surging forth, unstoppable as the storm, certain as the tide. 

“Because I love you,” he said simply. “And I could hardly say I loved you if I truly believed you were yourself then.”

He watched Trevelyan’s eye widen, his lips part gently, and his tears give way to shock. 

“To be frank,” Dorian said, “I’m unsure as to how you can look at me.”

Trevelyan’s shock fell into confusion, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Solas told me,” Dorian replied. “About the desire demons, I mean. He had warned me, just in case it should come up.” A bit of fear and doubt lodged in his throat, and he gave an insecure cough. “I was the face of some of your torment. I knew what it meant, but I wasn’t sure… if you would…”

Trevelyan swept forward, grasping Dorian in a tight hug again. “All it ever did was make me adamant to come back to you. I’m so relieved to see your face and know it’s truly  _ you _ , Dorian.”

Dorian held him just as fiercely, an uncontrollable smile on his face. 

They stood there, a single entity entangled in the firelight, until the sun disappeared behind the mountaintops, and the last burning ribbons of sky dimmed to near-blackness. 

“Come to bed with me,” Trevelyan said, pulling back, and even in the dim candlelight, Dorian could see the bags under his eye, all his remaining aches and uncertainties etched as dark shadows across his face. 

He leaned in low, kissing Trevelyan’s knuckles. “Of course.”

Together, they stripped down and slid into nightclothes. Dorian had mostly faced away, not trusting his virility to keep to itself, but he caught a glimpse of Trevelyan as he turned to grasp a nightshirt. 

Trevelyan was naked, lit from the side by the fireplace, every graceful angle and slope of his body bronzed, every divot and curve inward cast in dark shadow. His wide shoulders rippled with muscle as he pulled off his shirt. 

The sight set off a rampant hunger in Dorian, but he turned away, seeing Trevelyan’s bruised arms every time he closed his eyes, reminding himself of the fear and relief in his own heart. 

He turned around, the bed creaking as Trevelyan lowered himself beneath the warm blankets, and Dorian followed him, giddy and cautious all at once, unsure what to do with himself. Should he reach out to Trevelyan or keep his hands to himself? Should he say something? He’d never been able to have this—this  _ domesticity _ in his life before. He was a lover beyond compare, but to love? He didn’t know how. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to. As soon as he was settled in, Trevelyan turned to face him, reaching an arm out over Dorian’s chest and nuzzling into Dorian’s neck. He let out a content sigh, his body going limp, and with that noise, Dorian had no doubt that here and now, Trevelyan was finally at peace. 

It was this thought that put Dorian at ease, too. His body relaxed, one hand curling under Trevelyan’s neck to rest on his shoulder. He shut his eyes, and it was as if someone had flipped a switch, for soon, he was fast asleep. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning for this chapter!

What few snowbirds roosted at Skyhold woke Dorian with their songs.

His eyes slowly blinked open, adjusting to the morning light streaming from the windows, catching a glimpse of two birds settling on the balustrade outside. A little smile grew on his lips before he could even notice it was happening. 

Dorian let himself tarry for a moment, resting comfortably in bed and fully absorbing the scene before him. His body was overwhelmed by an immense feeling of peace which started around his shoulders, coursed through his chest, and ended somewhere near his toes. When he had his fill of the pleasant stillness of the morning, Dorian’s gaze swept toward Trevelyan. His face was smoothed by peaceful slumber, his hair tousled in a way only deep sleep could accomplish. What few shadows remained on his countenance yesterday were banished, and the magnanimous morning did little to disturb him. 

Dorian couldn’t help himself--his hand stretched out from beneath the covers of his own accord, smoothing his knuckles across the back of Trevelyan’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, the pad of his thumb skimming across Trevelyan’s full lower lip.

A huff of breath brushed against Dorian’s hand, and Trevelyan blinked awake, the morning light setting his blue eye aglow. Dorian’s hand stilled almost immediately, his eyes widening as Trevelyan, without hesitation, sucked Dorian’s thumb into his mouth. 

Setting his hesitation aside, Dorian forced a confident smile across his face. “Good morning,” he said.

Trevelyan didn’t answer, instead holding Dorian’s gaze with something Dorian had never seen before flickering beneath his lashes and sucking Dorian’s thumb further into his mouth. Dorian’s mouth dried, his smile wavering behind the strength of the spike of arousal that shot through his nerves. 

Trevelyan’s head tilted back, his eye closing, a soft look of bliss on his face. Dorian’s thread of self-control frayed, his eyes raking over the pale expanse of Trevelyan’s neck. 

Trevelyan’s eye slid open, his gaze immediately locking on Dorian’s once more. He slid Dorian’s thumb from his mouth, slowly rising to his elbows. Head swimming, Dorian at once recognized the look in Trevelyan’s eyes: it was that feral look that Dorian had seen last night, and it ignited Dorian from deep within, sparks of fire skating just beneath his skin. 

“Good morning,” Trevelyan replied, and he reached up, his fingers threading through Dorian’s hair and tugging, gently, pulling him forward until their mouths met. 

Dorian’s heart swelled, his hands gripping the sheets firmly in some effort to keep himself from thoroughly debauching Trevelyan. Usually, he wouldn’t be so reserved about this kind of thing--he prided himself on being a thorough lover, on receiving his own pleasure just by providing it for others--but Trevelyan’s bruises, his haunted look, and the shiver in his whole body as he held Dorian down to the rock in the Hinterlands with a blade to his throat all kept Dorian from letting himself truly unleash himself. 

But Trevelyan was persistent. He pulled Dorian down, his hands linking behind Dorian’s neck, and tugged Dorian on top of him, arching up into Dorian’s body. His hands roamed everywhere, his nails scratching gently against Dorian’s scalp, his fingertips tracing the outline of his clavicle through his nightclothes, his thumb flicking Dorian’s nipple as he moved his hands down to tease the hem of Dorian’s shirts.

Dorian huffed a hard breath against Trevelyan’s cheek, his arms shaking as he held himself above Trevelyan. Dorian moaned quietly into Trevelyan’s mouth, goosepimples rising on his skin in the wake of Trevleyan’s questing hands. His body was afire, coming to life in this gentle yet persistent passion, but he continued to pull himself back by what reins he could find. 

“Dorian,” Trevelyan said, a breathy sort of plea that went straight to Dorian’s arousal. His hands sought out Dorian’s face, cupping his cheeks in his palms, thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones with a sort of reverence Dorian could scarcely comprehend. “Are you alright?”

Dorian chuckled, trying to put on his most debonair smile, but it must have come out shaky, because Trevelyan pulled further away from him, trying to get a better look at his face. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Trevelyan was missing an eye, and some might think that this would somehow demean his ability to hold others arrested by his gaze, but here and now, Dorian could confirm with absolute certainty that his presence was by no means diminished. Dorian couldn’t help but hold Trevelyan’s gaze, as if forced to. 

“You’re stiff,” Trevelyan replied. “I’m sorry if I moved too quickly. I should have asked--”

“Maker, no,” Dorian said, leaning his weight on one elbow and reaching up with his free hand to cup Trevelyan’s cheek. “No, that’s not the issue at all. I want this. I really do, amatus.”

Trevelyan tilted his head in a silent question.

“I just… it’s been a long two weeks for you. You’re just barely out of the woods in terms of recovery. If I don’t have a steady, gentle hand at this… I’d never forgive myself if the first time we spent together was tainted by me breaking you all over again.” He laughed, half-earnestly, half-hysterically. It was hard to keep track of everything that was happening, both the good and the bad.

Trevelyan smiled, and it was too kind, too gentle, to be something Dorian deserved. “I’m sure I’ve proven to you that I’m made of stronger stuff by now,” he said, almost chiding. 

“Of course you have,” Dorian scoffed. “I’m not interested in anything less.”

“Then,” Trevelyan said, looping his arms around Dorian’s neck and pulling him down, “why are you still hesitating?”

Dorian shivered as he was pressed to the hard length of Trevelyan’s body. He’d already filled out a little since being back, but he still wasn’t as healthy as he was before. “I don’t want to… to ruin things again.”

Trevelyan’s full-bodied chuckle resonated through Dorian, echoing through his bones. “You’ve never ruined them in the first place.” He rolled his body a little, and Dorian huffed a breath, his simmering arousal growing hotter again. Trevelyan leaned up a little as he pulled Dorian down, their faces dangerously close to one another. Trevelyan’s naked eye glinted with mischief. “Is this your way of asking me to properly seduce you? Because I will if I must, and I won’t be merciful about it.”

Maker’s sodding breath.

Dorian pulled what scant centimeters he could from Trevelyan’s mouth, his eyes fluttering closed as Trevelyan’s hands wandered down his back, nails scraping through the thin cloth of his nightclothes. “Are you sure?”

To Dorian’s immense surprise, Trevelyan whined out a sinful sound, arching into Dorian’s body again, his hands sliding up beneath Dorian’s shirt and teasing his chest with light pinches and caresses. Dorian grunted breathily, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the headboard.

“I know what I want,” he murmured in Dorian’s ear. “And I want you. It’s as I said last night; I’m tired of waiting. So please,” he moaned, the sound so sweet Dorian was sure he could die a happy man, “touch me. I love you, I  _ love  _ you,  _ touch me _ .”

Dorian succumbed with a sharp gasp, reaching forward and toppling his weight entirely on top of Trevelyan, settling his hips between Trevelyan’s thighs and grinding down. “You’re a rotten bastard,” he groused before leaning in low for a kiss.

Trevelyan’s hands found their way under the nightclothes to Dorian’s bare back, a hiss escaping his smirking lips. He drew his nails down Dorian’s skin. Dorian moaned, his lips leaving Trevelyan’s to seek out his neck, kissing, licking, and marking indiscriminately. He propped himself up on one arm to free a hand to explore Trevelyan’s body, pressing his fingertips into Trevelyan’s chest, memorizing every sigh and gasp Trevelyan uttered in response to his ministrations. 

Trevelyan’s hands caged Dorian’s cheeks again, and Dorian’s breath caught as he looked at Trevelyan’s eye. There was an unbridled honesty there, a wide-eyed awe that Dorian couldn’t believe was directed at him.

Dorian’s ministrations slowed. His attention was solely on Trevelyan’s eye, on the way Dorian captivated him somehow. Beneath Dorian’s hands, Trevelyan trembled, each tremor so subtle only Dorian’s fingertips could catch them. 

“I love you,” Trevelyan said.

Dorian’s certainty overwhelmed him. “And I you,” he replied. “I love you so much, amatus.”

Dorian met Trevelyan’s lips in a kiss, laying himself on top of Trevelyan and pressing their bodies together, plastered together front-to-front. Dorian could feel Trevelyan’s arousal against his own, pressing incessantly against the fabric of their nightclothes, but this was bliss as it was. Trevelyan swept a shaking hand down the length of Dorian’s back, following each dip and curve of his body as if he were mapping out each hillock and valley.

Dorian’s usual bravado held no power here. Crushed purely by the weight of Trevelyan’s earnestness, Dorian let himself be swept away, let his carefully-constructed masks fall. He abandoned all of his pretenses. He could hardly even remind himself that he had never felt this before. 

“Amatus,” Dorian whispered, pressing himself back up to his elbow. Trevelyan rose to meet him (and Dorian’s heart thrilled at how open and wonderful Trevelyan’s look of pure bliss was), but he pressed down  “Amatus, wait, let me--let me look at you.”

Trevelyan allowed himself to fall back, his arms coming to rest above his head, and Dorian pushed himself up to straddle Trevelyan’s waist. His firm stomach flexed and unflexed as he heaved each breath, his pale skin still marred with bruises, cuts, and other such miscellany, but no less beautiful than it would have been completely blemish-free. His nipples were perked, blush-pink and heavenly under the dawn’s caressing light, and the length of his beautiful neck was marked only slightly with the occasional freckle. Dorian vowed to memorize the position of each, if only to further and more devoutly adore this man. His cheeks were stained with a beautiful blush, his lashes long and ginger, his eye glazed over with pure lust and adoration in equal measure. 

Dorian reached up and pinned his wrists in a firm grip not intended to keep him from moving, but for the expression Trevelyan made when he felt the pressure. Dorian leaned low and grasped Trevelyan’s chin in his free hand, watching as Trevelyan’s jaw went slack and his pupil blew wide.

“You are perfection incarnate, amatus,” he whispered against Trevelyan’s lips, hovering just out of reach. “You would never need to seduce me… I would fall at your feet with just a glance. You could make a mess of me with a simple command. Maker, how could I ever resist you?”

Trevelyan moaned, and Dorian sealed his open mouth over the sound, pressing himself so firmly against Trevelyan that they both let out a debauched sound. Dorian released Trevelyan’s wrists and Trevelyan’s hands immediately shot down toward Dorian’s hips.

Dorian tore his mouth away from Trevelyan’s with a wrecked cry, pressing his face into the crook of Trevelyan’s neck as he grasped hold of Dorian’s length and worked him firmly but slowly. The earth-shattering effect of Trevelyan’s hands on him was unlike anything he’d ever felt before; he was truly dizzy with it, losing his usually-steadfast (when it came to these particular activities) bearings and falling under Trevelyan’s spell. 

“Amatus,” he said on a broken moan, clutching weakly at his chest. 

Trevelyan replied with a simple kiss to the top of his head, his hand keeping up its pace. Could he not see he was slowly destroying Dorian, taking him apart piece by piece? And how was this even possible? With one hand, Trevelyan reduced him to ash--his touch, the simplest thing, affected Dorian so, pushed him beyond the realm of what he believed possible. This pleasure was not merely of the flesh; it reached deeper, pulled at something far within Dorian’s body, and Dorian was helpless but to let himself be taken completely. He lost himself in the feeling of a warm body against his, of his pleasure being wrung from him, but also in the soft sounds Trevelyan made, the cadence of his voice, the individual calluses on his hands, the smell of his skin, the fact that he was in Trevelyan’s bed, in his arms.

He felt tears spring to his eyes, and as confused as he was, he understood it, in the sense that an animal understands its instinct.

They didn’t move to press on, didn’t further escalate the situation, because this was bliss. 

“Amatus,” Dorian said, because that was all he could say in this moment.

“You’re beautiful,” Trevelyan whispered in his hair, and Dorian spasmed.

“ _ Amatus _ ,” Dorian said again, urgency laced thick in his tone.

“Come,” Trevelyan said. 

Dorian convulsed, his nails digging weakly into the skin on Trevelyan’s chest, his breath leaving him on a vocal sigh. Sensation flooded him completely, stripped him of all reservation, and left him bare and aching and  _ loving  _ in such perfect bliss he could do little to explain it. He shook and shook, and all the while, Trevelyan stroked him through it, tilting his head up with his free hand and kissing him. Dorian swept his hand up Trevelyan’s chest to clutch at his neck, his thumb stroking the line of Trevelyan’s jaw.

Slowly, he came down, returning fully to himself to find Trevelyan peppering kisses across the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. 

“I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous,” Trevelyan whispered, and Dorian kissed him because he couldn’t take it.

He rolled himself above Trevelyan, trailing kisses, nips, and licks down his neck as he relished in his fingertips gliding over every dip and curve of Trevelyan’s thighs as he slowly inched his way toward Trevelyan’s hardened length. He glanced down, unable to resist getting a look at Trevelyan’s bare thighs and hips. He admired the darkness of his hand against the pale expanse beneath him, enjoyed the look of his fingertips running through the thatch of ginger hair at Trevelyan’s groin as he reached for him.

Trevelyan’s soft groans turned into a full-blown moan, and his hands spasmed, grasping at the sheets until his knuckles whitened. Dorian looked up at Trevelyan’s face, eyes snagging on Trevelyan’s lip, caught between his teeth, and his eye, closed tightly with ecstasy.

“Dorian,” he released on a hot breath, and Dorian obliged him, cupping his balls gently before grasping his shaft in a steadfast grip. 

“Unn…!” Trevelyan said, and if Dorian wasn’t already spent, he would have come the second he heard that noise.

Dorian only glanced down to check the placement of his hand; otherwise, his gaze was locked on Trevelyan’s face, cataloguing all of his expressions: the furrowing of his brows, the way he worried at his lips, the blush growing hotter and more vibrant the further along Dorian carried him. Most key to Dorian, though, was the sounds he made: the choked off groans, the half-gasps of Dorian’s name, the grunts and whines, the loud moans that echoed off the stone walls. Trevelyan was  _ loud _ , and it delighted him, drew him more to Trevelyan (if at all possible), body, mind, and soul.

“I adore you,” Dorian found himself saying, and Trevelyan tossed his head to the side, moaning. “I truly do. I was nearly destroyed without you--I was distraught, cast adrift without an anchor. I thought of you every moment you weren’t here, amatus. I felt so many things on your behalf: I was angry, I was determined. But most of all, amatus, I so strongly felt love for you that it became my everything.”

Trevelyan’s eye opened, glancing down at him through half-lidded lashes. His eyes were aglow with both focus and the open endlessness of love. Beneath his hands, Dorian could feel him tensing, slowly winding closer to his end. 

Dorian met his gaze headlong, hoping Trevelyan could see the love in his eyes, hoping he could see  _ everything _ words could not suffice to say. “Long ago, you lit a flame in me, and it  _ burned _ . When you left, it never wavered, and when you returned, it only grew stronger. And when I thought you were gone, and didn’t know where you were, it consumed me.” 

He quickened his pace, watching as Trevelyan’s body began to move, his hands reaching out for purchase everywhere, but his eye never leaving Dorian’s. 

“And when I saw your face again, it tore free. I knew I’d do anything to protect you, to bring you back, and if that meant burning the whole world, then I would do it. You lit this fire in me, amatus, and I carry it on for you.”

“Dorian,” Trevelyan whispered, and his eye screwed shut. 

“My darling amatus,” Dorian said, leaning in and stealing his lips in a kiss. “Can you feel how I burn for you?”

Trevelyan threw his head back, crying out, his hands blindly finding Dorian’s triceps and catching them in a vice grip. Dorian stroked him through his release, relishing in the sound of his name on Trevelyan’s whimpers as he slowly came down. When he finally fell still, his eye opened, and he bolted upright, carrying Dorian with him. He crushed them together in a hug, and Dorian wound his arms around Trevelyan’s ribs, clutching at him with relief. He could feel Trevelyan’s ribs spasming as he took shuddering breaths.

When they pulled away, Dorian wiped the tears from beneath Trevelyan’s eyes. Trevelyan cupped Dorian’s cheeks in his hands, his thumbs catching tears as well, and he chuckled on a shaky breath. Dorian let loose a watery smile of his own and let himself be pulled into Trevelyan’s arms again.

“It’s over,” Trevelyan said, and the finality of it struck him. Everything he’d felt these past few days--the anger, the loss, the pain, the fear--had fallen quiet. All that was left was that ever-enduring love, that passionate yet feeble thing that refused to be laid low by circumstance, doubt, or self-sabotage. He had made peace with it, and it paid him back in kind, growing and growing almost faster than he could comprehend.

Dorian smiled, threading his hands through the hair at the nape of Trevelyan’s neck, closing his eyes and letting the sunlight and birdsong wash over him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's been a wonderful journey writing this and reading all your lovely responses. I hope to entertain you more in the future.


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